Reflections  of  a 
T.  B.  M. 


By  -Himself 


The  Reflections  of  a 
T.B.M. 


The  Reflections  of  a 

T.  B.  M. 


DECORATIONS  BY  GLUYAS  WILLIAMS 


Boston  and  New  York 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

ts*  Cambrfofle 
1922 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CAMBRIDGE  •  MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED  IN  THE  U.S.A. 


TO  THE  LADIES 
ESPECIALLY  TO  THOSE 
WHO  TAKE  THESE  PAPERS 

WITH  A 
GRAIN  OF  SALT 


PREFACE 

THE  T.  B.  M.  has  been  pictured  for  years  by 
Life  as  a  bald-headed  individual  who  fre 
quents  the  front  row  of  a  musical  revue. 
I  have  sometimes  felt  that  Life  assumed 
that  the  poorer  the  show  the  more  the 
T.  B.  M.  enjoyed  it. 

As  T.  B.  M.  merely  stands  for  Tired 
Business  Man,  I  have  ventured  in  these 
pages  to  stand  for  him  in  a  new  light.  These 
Reflections  upon  the  fair  sex  must  not  be 
considered  as  reflections  at  all.  Heaven  for 
bid  that  I  should  pose  as  one  superior  to 
those  members  of  the  sex  which  now  marches 
onward  invincible  alike  to  law  and  order  as 
—  we  knew  them  once.  No,  these  papers 
are  merely  thumbnail  sketches  of  feminine 
traits  written  at  random  after  the  day  (and 
the  man)  is  done. 

T.  B.  M. 


CONTENTS 

A  WIFE'S  BEST  FRIEND  1 

THE  MODERN  MOTHER  11 

THE  LADY  NEXT  DOOB  23 

THE  TRAINED  NURSE  85 

THE  SHOW  GIRL  49 

A  MOTHER-IN-LAW  67 

THE  NEW  STENOGRAPHER  73 

A  NEAR-FLAPPER  87 

THE  CHIEF  OPERATOR  99 

THE  ATHLETIC  GIRL  113 

THE  AUTHORESS  121 

THE  NEW  VOTER  133 

THE  DEBUTANTE  141 

A  NEIGHBOR  ONCE  REMOVED  153 

SISTER  165 

TOPSY-TURVY  175 


A  WIFE'S  BEST  FRIEND 


• 


The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

•     • 
• 

A  WIFE'S  BEST  FRIEND 

WHEN  a  man  marries !  Ah,  that  was  a  time 
when  the  T.  B.  M.  did  not  exist.  He  was  still 
Young,  Hopeful,  a  Gay  Lochinvar,  following 
Thackeray's  advice  to  his  young  nephew, 
and  he  looked  upon  life  pretty  much  as  a 
young  man  might  look  upon  a  new  suit  of 
clothes  just  home  from  the  tailor's,  as  some 
thing  made  exclusively  for  him  and  exclu 
sively  his  own. 

And  those  first  joyous  years  of  exclusive 
dual  contentment  carried  out  admirably  the 
idea.  The  old  world  revolved  not  altogether 
upon  its  axis,  but  about  them,  bringing^ 
friends  and  families  together  in  a  kaleido 
scopic  fashion  from  which  pleasant,  changing 
groupings  formed  patterns  on  their  hearth- 


4    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

rug.  Yes,  there  is  more  than  a  grain  of  truth 
in  the  familiar  phrase  of  "marrying  into  a 
family,"  for  first  and  last  the  family  clutter 
up  the  marital  relations  oftener  than  not 
with  the  best  intentions  and  with  the  most 
deplorable  results;  and,  conversely,  with 
hostile  intentions  and  with  ultimate  benefi 
cial  results;  for  the  world  is  as  full  of  contra 
dictions  as  it  is  of  human  beings.  But  there 
is  one  particular  species,  which  stands  forth 
as  sui  generis  —  a  wife's  best  friend.  You 
know  her.  She  starts  by  calling  you  by  your 
Christian  name  upon  introduction.  She  de 
clares  that  you  are  going  to  be  the  best  of 
friends  because  Sue  is  the  dearest  thing  in 
the  world  to  her  and  of  course  to  me.  She 
goes  on  for  some  time,  working  out  varia 
tions  of  this  theme  until  you  become  a  trifle 
jumpy.  Then  she  starts  to  dissect  Sue's 
character,  at  first  pointing  out  her  many 
perfections,  but  working  up  to  a  few  less 


A  Wife's  Best  Friend  5 

complimentary  traits.  Certain  of  these  I 
have  already  recognized,  but  naturally  I  fail 
to  agree,  and  show  perhaps  a  little  too 
plainly  that  we  have  gone  far  enough.  This 
has  a  chilling  effect  upon  the  conversation, 
and  we  wander  off  into  a  discussion  of  the 
relative  advantages  of  a  flat  in  town  over  a 
small  house  in  the  country  and  the  attendant 
advantages  and  expenses  of  each.  In  fact, 
we  go  into  such  detail  that  I  begin  to  wonder 
whom  I  am  going  to  marry  after  all,  Sue  or 
her  best  friend,  or  whether  this  best  friend  is 
not  a  general  manager  in  disguise  come  to 
run  our  affairs  for  the  love  of  Sue. 

After  this  first  meeting  I  find  myself 
dejected,  and  firm  upon  one  thing.  Sue  and 
her  best  friend  were  classmates  at  college. 
I  had  not  previously  known  many  college 
girls,  or,  at  least,  I  had  not  known  whether 
or  no  my  friends  of  the  opposite  sex  were  col 
lege-bred  or  not,  for  as  I  saw  them  singly, 


6    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

the  college  stamp  was  not  apparent,  but 
putting  them  together  produced  the  neces 
sary  chemical  alloy  which  brought  clearly  in 
evidence  the  dear  old  Alma  Mater  spirit  to 
such  a  degree  that,  narrow-minded  male 
that  I  was,  I  immediately  came  to  the  con 
clusion  that,  while  college  is  all  very  well  for 
boys,  it  was  not  at  all  necessary  or  becoming 
to  girls.  That  started  it,  and  I  have  suffered 
ever  since;  in  fact,  the  symptoms  of  the 
T.  B.  M.  might  be  said  to  have  first  ap 
peared  at  this  time. 

The  best  friend  reverted  to  formalities 
and  I  became  "Mr.  X."  from  then  on  and 
for  some  years  to  come. 

Sue  was  never  disloyal  to  me  by  word  or 
gesture,  but  I  knew  she  condemned  my  at 
titude  toward  her  college  days. 

We  often  sat  reading  at  night  when  the 
telephone  would  ring.  Naturally,  I  was  the 
one  to  answer,  and  many  a  night  I  recog- 


A  Wife's  Best  Friend          7 

nized  the  voice  of  my  wife's  best  friend  in  the 
"Hello,  is  Sue  &  there?"—-  without  the 
slightest  evidence  that  she  knew  my  voice  or 
of  my  existence.  Then  would  follow  a  long 
conversation,  in  which  Sue  would  lay  plans 
for  a  reunion  the  following  week  in  town,  or 
together  they  would  agree  to  pass  the  night 

with  Mildred  in ,  collegian  Mildred 

being  another  of  the  same  vintage. 

These  talks  would  always  occur  when  I 
happened  to  be  in  the  most  absorbing  por 
tion  of  a  thriller  or  engaged  upon  writing  my 
weekly  family  letter,  and  of  course  it  knocked 
my  mind  into  a  cocked  hat. 

There  were  other  times  when  my  wife's 
best  friend  came  to  us  for  a  few  days.  Gen 
erally  these  visits  were  planned  while  I  was 
on  a  business  trip. 

"The  B.F.  is  coming  on  Tuesday,  so  you 
need  not  worry  about  my  being  lonely,"  Sue 
would  remark  demurely.  Sue  has  both  a 


8    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

sense  of  proportion  and  a  sense  of  humor. 
It  is  a  great  relief  in  a  wife. 

"Righto.  Give  the  college  yell  for  me, 
and  give  three  long  meow  cats  at  the  end  in 
stead  of  Tiger,"  I  would  reply  facetiously. 

Plans  have  a  way,  however,  of  miscarry 
ing  —  the  best  of  them;  and  not  long  ago 
one  of  these  business  trips  fell  through  at  the 
last  moment  and  I  came  home  to  dinner  to 
find  my  wife  and  her  best  friend  cozily  en 
sconced  in  our  bedroom,  both  in  kimonos, 
and  both  eating  crackers  and  sipping  choco 
late  in  recollection  of  the  good  old  college 
sprees. 

Great  was  the  consternation  thereon.  The 
B.F.  with  a  dignity  worthy  of  a  Portia  un 
folded  herself  from  the  sofa  and,  with  a 
"This  is  a  pleasant  surprise,  Robert,"  moved 
majestically  to  the  door,  in  one  hand  her  cup 
and  saucer  and  in  the  other  a  hot-water  bot 
tle,  her  steps  noiseless.  I  afterwards  found 
her  slippers  on  the  sofa. 


A  Wife's  Best  Friend          9 

My  wife  was  convulsed.  "Why  on  earth 
didn't  you  telephone?"  she  exclaimed  be 
tween  sobs  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  I  thought  I  would  like  to  see  what 
these  college  debauches  were  like,"  I  mur 
mured,  "  and  now  I  imagine  I  am  out  a  din 


ner." 


"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  Sue  declared  stoutly. 
"In  a  jiffy  we'll  have  a  high  old  meal  for 
you."  And  she  did. 

What  a  Best  Friend  needs  is  a  husband. 
I  discovered  this  when  Sue's  collegiate  better 
half  took  Francis  Bayard  into  partnership. 
Poor  girl,  she  had  clung  to  the  college  game 
in  self-defense  and  because  of  a  certain  shy 
ness  which,  I  imagine,  in  some  people  as 
sumes  a  peculiarly  offensive  tinge  of  preco 
city.  In  any  event,  as  Mrs.  Bayard  she 
became  human  to  me,  and  since  that  time 
we  have  been  able  to  laugh  about  the  good  old 
college  days  without  a  taint  of  bitterness. 


10    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

Sue  is  of  course  delighted  at  the  outcome, 
for  she  is  devoted  to  Mary  Bayard,  and 
while  she  used  to  joke  over  our  incompati 
bility,  she  felt  it  none  the  less. 

And  yet  we  have  our  discussions,  serious 
ones,  over  the  question  of  college  for  the 
girls,  for  we  have  a  daughter  and  some  day 
the  issue  must  be  met.  I  still  am  of  the  opin 
ion  that  a  girl  should  learn  something  be 
sides  those  subjects  taught  in  the  average 
school  for  young  girls.  My  daughter  must 
be  self-reliant  (Heaven  knows  they  are  that 
in  these  days,  all  of  them !)  and  she  must  be 
self-supporting  in  case  the  need  comes.  But 
that  does  not  in  my  opinion  (the  opinion  of  a 
T.  B.  M.)  require  a'  college  education.  Sue 
declares  it  does.  The  judgment  must  be  left 
to  you,  dear  reader. 


THE  MODERN  MOTHEB 


THE  MODERN  MOTHER 

"On,  you  modern  mother!"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Betsy,  who  had  come  to  stay  with  us  as  a 
matter  of  convenience  to  her  —  but  not  to 
me,  I  reflected  miserably,  after  the  third  day. 

"What's  modern  about  mother?"  I  asked 
mildly.  Being  but  a  T.  B.  M.,  I  had  thought 
of  mothers  as  perennially  and  even  epochally 
the  same  since  Eve.  To  me  mothers  always 
seemed  to  do  just  exactly  the  same  thing, 
namely,  to  acquire  children  and  bring  them 
up.  There  was  the  period  of  two-hour  feed 
ings  and  then  three.  There  were  bathing 
episodes.  There  were  what  are  known  as 
"bubbles,"  which  require  the  offspring  to 
assume  a  reclining  position  face  down  and  to 
submit  to  a  gentle  agitating  motion  until 
said  bubbles  disappeared. 

And  later  there  was  the  period  of  rubbers 


14    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

and  overcoats  worn  at  appropriate  times, 
and  so  on  up  to  curtain  lectures  upon  boyish 
pranks  or  hoydenish  behavior,  but  always 
the  same. 

^"But,  no,"  exclaimed  Aunt  Betsy,  "it  is 
not  the  same  at  all!  Dear  little  Dickey  is 
crying  his  heart  out  upstairs  and  your  wife" 
(Aunt  Betsy  is  my  aunt,  not  Sue's)  "pays  no 
attention  to  him.  Now  in  my  day  — "  Here 
I  was  startled,  for  Aunt  Betsy  is  a  maiden 
lady  of  somewhat  advanced  age  and  I  was 
dreading  a  revelation  —  "In  my  day,  when 
Sister  Ann's  children  were  babies,  crying  was 
considered  a  danger  signal.  That  was  the 
time  to  watch  for  symptoms." 

"Symptoms?"  asked  my  wife,  just  com 
ing  into  the  room. 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  a  little  wearily;  "Aunt 
Betsy  says  when  a  child  cries  you  should 
look  for  symptoms." 

"Nonsense,"  said  Sue.  "Dickey-Bird 's  all 


The  Modern  Mother          15 

right.  All  he  wants  is  to  be  taken  up  and 
petted,  and  I  am  trying  to  cure  him.  I  don't 
believe  in  pampering  children.  Spoil  them 
in  the  first  five  years  of  their  lives  and  they 
will  be  spoiled  for  all  time."  Sue  went  hum 
ming  out  toward  the  kitchen  unconcerned  at 
Aunt  Betsy's  glare.  But,  being  a  T.  B.  M., 
I  also  escaped.  It  was  not  until  Dickey  was 
ten  that  Aunt  Betsy  came  for  another  visit. 

At  this  time  Dickey  was  an  adventurous 
spirit.  We  were  having  some  difficulty  with 
him,  I  admit.  In  fact,  as  all  know,  the 
T.  B.  M.  is  at  his  worst  just  after  returning 
from  the  office  and  it  was  at  such  times  that 
Dickey's  exploits  were  narrated  and  punish 
ment  accorded. 

Upon  this  particular  afternoon,  it  was  a 
white,  pinched-f  aced  Aunt  Betsy  who  opened 
the  door  for  me  and  who  gasped  out  the 
mysterious  words,  "  Dickey 's  gone  and  done 
it  this  time!" 


16    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

"Gone  and  done  what?"  I  asked  appre 
hensively. 

"I  told  him  not  to  go!"  wailed  the  old 
lady. 

"Go  where?"  I  demanded. 

"But  he  won't  mind  me!"  she  continued. 

Just  then  my  wife  came  in  from  the 
kitchen  bearing  a  hot-water  bag  filled  from 
the  kettle. 

"What's  this  all  about? "  I  said  somewhat 
fiercely. 

"Dickey  fell  through  the  ice  and  got 
soaked,"  she  replied  calmly.  "But  it's  noth 
ing  except  that  he  was  scared  to  death,  and 
I'm  glad  of  it."  And  off  she  went  to  ad 
minister  to  the  culprit. 

Later  in  our  room  she  gave  me  a  report  of 
the  casualty.  It  appeared  that  Dickey  and 
his  two  cronies  had  decided  to  try  skating. 
It  was  their  first  appearance,  encouraged  by 
a  Christmas  gift  of  skates  a  fortnight  before. 


The  Modern  Mother          17 

She  had  advised  against  it,  as  she  told  the 
boys  the  ice  was  not  thick  enough,  but,  boy- 
like,  they  thought  they  knew  better.  Sue 
had  not  forbidden  Dickey,  for  she  is  a  great 
believer  in  education  by  experience  and  she 
knew  that  the  little  pond  was  shallow  and 
that  nothing  serious  could  happen.  So  she 
had  watched  tlie  proceedings  from  behind 
the  curtains  of  her  upper  window,  while 
Aunt  Betsy  in  agony  viewed  the  same  pro 
ceedings  from  the  living-room.  No  ill  effects 
were  apparent  next  morning,  when  Dickey, 
in  excellent  spirits  and  with  the  conscious 
ness  of  having  been  through  a  real  experi 
ence,  trudged  happily  to  school. 

"An  only  child,"  Sue  always  asserted, 
"is  more  to  be  pitied  than  any  other  type  of 
human  being."  And  so  Dickey  was  followed 
by  Mary  Bird  two  years  younger;  and  the 
Shrimp,  alias  James  Rollins,  the  following 
year  —  to  be  more  exact  upon  the  4th  day 


18    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

of  March  at  the  convenient  hour  of  three  in 
the  morning,  a  morning  by  the  way  upon 
which  he  was  not  expected  and,  conse 
quently,  the  household  was  thrown  into  a 
state  of  excitement  bordering  upon  panic. 
It  was  only  the  calm  and  presence  of  mind  of 
Sue  herself  which  brought  order  to  the  cha 
otic,  kimono-ed  group  which  constituted  our 
menage.  Many  an  evening,  being  a  T.  B.  M., 
I  have  berated  the  telephone  as  the  inven 
tion  of  a  brilliant  but  besotted  gossip,  but 
upon  this  occasion  I  blessed  the  man  who 
harnessed  the  sound  waves  and  drove  them 
by  wire. 

Such  was  the  Shrimp's  coming,  and  his 
exploits  up  to  the  present  moment  have  been 
somewhat  similar  in  their  inopportuneness. 
For  instance,  on  the  morning  of  our  moving 
to  the  country,  when  everything  was  packed, 
the  house  ready  for  closing,  and  the  motor  at 
the  door,  he  announced  that  he  had  swal- 


The  Modern  Mother          19 

lowed  a  pin.  Sue  was  ready  for  the  emer 
gency  and  produced  dry  bread  from  her 
handbag,  intended  for  a  midday  lunch, 
telephoned  the  doctor  to  be  on  call  in  case  of 
trouble,  and  then  proceeded  to  carry  out  our 
plan  as  if  nothing  had  happened;  and  noth 
ing  did  happen,  except  that  Shrimp  now 
proudly  exhibits  the  phi  stuck  through  a 
ribbon,  as  the  relic  of  a  past  achievement. 

But  that  was  long  ago,  and  many  a  child 
ish  event  has  stirred  the  household  and 
strained  the  nerves  since  those  early  days; 
and  yet  we  continue  to  live  along  in  normal 
grooves  with  Mother  Sue  in  charge,  yet 
wonderfully  free  to  do  an  astounding  num 
ber  of  things  which  Aunt  Betsy,  good  old 
soul,  who  will  never  worry  again,  would  have 
declared  to  be  no  part  of  a  mother's  duties. 

Sue  plays  a  good  game  of  golf,  she  enjoys 
bridge,  as  a  pianist  she  is  no  mean  performer. 
The  amount  of  time  she  spends  on  church 


20    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

matters  leads  me  to  believe  that  religion 
after  all  is  not  on  the  wane,  and  as  secretary 
of  the  local  woman's  club  she  has  been  won 
derfully  successful  in  securing  interesting 
speakers  for  the  various  meetings  —  and,  to 
balance  these  more  serious  occupations,  she 
dances  divinely.  Even  aT.  B.  M.  is  no  longer 
tired  when  he  has  good  music,  a  good  floor, 
elbow-room,  and  Sue  for  a  partner.  Here 
again  Aunt  Betsy  would  have  murmured 
and  remurmured  that  a  mother's  place  was 
in  her  home;  but  Sue  applied  her  recreation 
to  her  children's  upbringing  with  good  effect 
and  secured  a  diversion  which  enabled  her 
to  carry  on  with  youth  in  her  heart  and 
spring  in  her  step,  to  say  nothing  of  a  wealth 
of  brown  hair  with  not  a  suspicion  of  gray 
and  a  complexion  as  refreshing  and  colorful 
as  that  of  her  daughter. 

Dickey  has  been  her  companion  and  op 
ponent  at  golf  since  he  was  twelve,  with  the 


The  Modern  Mother          21 

result  that  his  handicap  was  lower  than  any 
boy  of  his  age. 

Mary-Bird  played  the  piano,  albeit  her 
repertoire  consisted  of  rag-time  music  you 
could  not  forget  and  verses  you  should  not 
remember;  the  Shrimp  roared  out  the  Sun 
day  hymns  as  if  he  were  sitting  in  the  cheer 
ing  section  of  a  Harvard  and  Yale  football 
game  and  victory  depended  upon  vocal 
strength.  We  played  bridge  together,  and 
the  speakers  at  the  woman's  club  meetings, 
usually  coming  to  us  afterwards  for  dinner, 
gave  us  a  glimpse  of  the  outer  world  and  a 
desire  for  knowledge  which  acted  as  a  spur 
to  every  member  of  the  family. 

Yes,  perhaps  Aunt  Betsy  was  right  after 
all  in  a  way.  There  are  mothers  and  moth 
ers,  and  the  modern  mother  is  perhaps  dif 
ferent  from  Eve  in  certain  aspects,  but  they 
are  after  and  above  all  just  mothers,  and  the 
finest  thing  on  earth,  God  bless  them! 


THE  LADY  NEXT  DOOR 


THE  LADY  NEXT  DOOR 

I  DO  not  know  the  Lady  Next  Door;  neither 
does  my  wife.  One  rarely  ever  knows  the 
Lady  Next  Door  in  the  city,  and  in  the 
country,  as  there  are  no  next  doors,  there  are 
no  females  of  this  species.  Instead  there  are 
neighbors,  and  this  sizes  up  fairly  accurately 
the  difference  between  town  and  country 
life;  or,  at  least,  that  is  the  way  my  wife 
gauges  it.  I  am  merely  a  T.  B  .M.,  and  in 
matters  social  I  am  scarcely  more  than  what 
is  known  in  stage  circles  as  "first  walking 
gentleman." 

In  the  country  there  is  a  quality  of  loy 
alty  either  to  the  town  or  to  the  people,  if  we 
except  our  relatives  (of  whom  at  times  the 
less  said  the  better),  which  excuses  much, 
but  overlooks  nothing;  whereas  in  the  city 
no  excuse  is  adequate  and  yet  much  is  over 
looked,  and  among  other  people  who  are 


26    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

overlooked  are  those  numerous  ladies  who 
live  next  door  to  us  and  to  our  friends.  And 
when  I  say  overlooked,  I  speak  with  a  dual 
meaning. 

I  have  often  wondered,  both  as  a  T.  B.  M. 
and  as  an  admirer  of  architecture,  who  was 
the  happy  originator  of  the  bow  window,  or, 
as  we  now  speak  of  it,  the  bay  window.  We 
think  of  Christopher  Wren  when  we  see  a 
fine  specimen  of  a  certain  type  of  church 
architecture.  Bulfinch  is  a  household  word 
in  New  England.  McKim,  Mead  and  White, 
and  Burnham  typify  all  that  is  best  in  our 
modern  building  and  planning  hi  this  coun 
try;  but  who  was  it  who  invented  the  bay 
window?  —  for  his  name  should  go  along 
with  those  of  Edison  and  Bell  in  providing 
an  invention  which  has  enabled  the  opposite 
sex  to  observe  and  from  observation  to  re 
late  gossip  which,  in  past  generations,  was 
as  a  sealed  book. 


The  Lady  Next  Door         27 

In  this  particular  case  I  happen  to  know 
all  about  the  Lady  Next  Door.  Not  because 
I  have  committed  any  indiscretion  which 
would  mar  these  printed  pages,  but  because 
of  my  wife's  assiduous  use  of  our  bay  win 
dow.  My  secret  conviction  is  that  I  have 
missed  a  trick  in  not  knowing  the  Lady  Next 
Door.  That  her  acquaintance  is  a  pleasure  is 
daily  evidenced,  for  she  entertains  at  a  pro 
digious  rate.  Any  one  who  reads  the  social 
columns  of  our  Sunday  papers  can  tell  you 
that  we  have  a  privileged  seat  at  all  of  her 
"at  homes,"  for  our  point  of  vantage  gives 
us  a  "close-up"  of  every  one  who  enters  her 
vestibule. 

I  have  seen  the  Lady  Next  Door  so  many 
times,  and  have  heard  my  wife  read  about 
her  so  often  from  the  papers,  that  she  is  a 
very  vivid  personality  to  me,  and  so,  as  I  sit 
in  my  window  smoking  a  cigarette  with  my 
evening  paper  on  my  knees,  the  way  a 


28    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

T.  B.  M.  should  sit  after  a  misspent  day,  I 
Bee  her  coming  up  the  street  at  a  swinging 
gait  in  a  walking-suit  which  my  wife  de 
clares  to  be  quite  new.  I  suspected  it  myself, 
as  the  skirt  seemed  more  abbreviated  than 
those  which  I  am  accustomed  to  view,  and 
for  this  reason,  as  well  as  others  sufficiently 
good,  I  remain  planted  in  my  chair  and  allow 
my  paper  to  drop  to  the  floor.  The  Lady 
Next  Door  is  tall  and  slim;  not  taller  than  a 
woman  should  be  —  her  eyes  would  not  meet 
mine  on  a  level  and  I  am  not  a  tall  man;  so 
that  as  girls  go  hi  these  days  of  feminine 
monsters,  she  is  not  tall,  but  her  figure  gives 
me  the  impression  of  height,  and  with  it  she 
has  the  buoyancy  and  spirit  of  a  young  girl; 
and  yet  here  again  I  am  told  by  my  wife 
that  she  is  not  young,  at  least  not  less  than 
thirty-seven.  I  do  not  know  why  my  wife 
should  not  have  conceded  thirty-five  as  an 
easier  and  rounder  figure,  but  she  would  not. 


The  Lady  Next  Door         29 

But  in  my  poor  T.  B.  M.  opinion  she  would 
pass  for  thirty  or  even  under,  as  she  stands 
on  the  pavement  talking  to  an  elderly  woman 
who  has  come  from  the  other  direction. 

The  aforesaid  walking-suit  is  of  elephant 
gray,  close-fitting  and  delightfully  plain, 
and  her  furs  —  quite  unnecessary  —  are  of 
silver  fox  and  must  have  cost  something. 
I  think  it  wiser  not  to  ask  my  wife  the  ap 
proximate  price  or  even  to  mention  furs,  for 
we  have  recently  considered  the  purchase  of 
a  set  and  I  have  determined  to  give  it  up. 
Her  hat  is  a  sort  of  three-cornered  affair  of 
black  velvet,  very  chic  and  very  plain,  and, 
therefore,  I  am  told,  very  expensive;  and 
speaking  of  hats  reminds  me  of  her  other 
extremities,  which  I  feel  sure  would  rejoice 
Mr.  Coles  Phillips,  who  for  years  has  stirred 
the  American  people  and  brought  customers 
to  the  manufacturer  of  silk  hose. 

It  is  said  that  to  place  the  figure  before 


30    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

the  face  is  a  common  masculine  trait,  but 
as  I  am  a  T.  B.  M.  this  hardly  requires  an 
explanation.  The  Lady  Next  Door  is  so  in 
variably  animated  that  it  is  difficult  to  catch 
her  features,  one  by  one,  long  enough  in  re 
pose  to  give  a  proper  sense  of  their  propor 
tions.  To  mention  wavy  brown  hair,  which 
my  wife  says  is  a  perpetual  wave,  does  not 
to  my  mind  detract  from  its  character.  To 
speak  of  the  pink-and-white  qualities  of  her 
complexion  neither  affirms  nor  denies  the  use 
of  cosmetics.  All  I  know  is  that  she  is  re 
markably  pretty,  and  as  I  look  out  upon  the 
scene  and  observe  John  Hamilton,  an  old 
friend  of  mine,  stop  and  join  the  ladies  and 
see  the  delightful  smile  with  which  she  wel 
comes  him,  I  begin  to  wonder  why  my  wife 
should  not  at  least  call  and  pave  the  way  for 
the  T.  B.  M.  But  she  won't —  at  least  I  know 
she  will  not  if  I  ask  her  —  and  yet  she  ad 
mits  that  the  Lady  Next  Door  never  affects 


The  Lady  Next  Door         31 

the  silly  fashions  which  mark  the  type  of 
woman  to  which  she  claims  the  Lady  Next 
Door  belongs.  For  instance,  she  does  not 
wear  little  puffs  of  hair  over  her  ears  or  pow 
der  her  nose  on  the  street,  nor  does  she  go  to 
the  other  extreme  and  lug  a  chow  of  a  dog 
about  in  her  arms,  and  ride  astride  every 
morning  at  nine. 

In  short,  to  me  as  I  sit  in  my  window  a 
T.  B.  M.  at  low  ebb,  I  consider  the  Lady 
Next  Door  as  a  lost  opportunity  until  the 
idea  occurs  to  me  that  John  Hamilton  can  ar 
range  the  whole  thing  for  me.  I  say  nothing 
of  this  to  my  wife,  at  present  at  least,  and 
pick  up  my  evening  paper  to  indicate  that 
the  Lady  Next  Door  has  no  further  interest 
for  me. 

This  all  happened  a  year  or  more  ago,  even 
longer,  now  I  think  of  it,  for  time  flies  and 
children  do  too  after  a  certain  period,  the 


32    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

period  which  poets  of  the  older  order  in 
variably  liken  to  the  departure  of  the  feath 
ered  flock  from  the  ancestral  nest.  It  was 
on  account  of  our  children  that  we  sold  our 
town  house,  including  the  bay  window,  and 
took  up  our  residence  some  fifteen  miles  out 
of  the  city,  just  escaping  the  suburbs,  and 
settling  into  a  long,  rangey  country  house 
with  a  fine  view  of  the  hills,  an  excellent 
school  for  the  children,  and  pleasant  neigh 
bors,  many  of  whom  we  had  known  for  years. 

A  T.  B.  M.  is  always  unmistakable,  but 
in  the  country,  especially  at  week-ends,  he 
is  less  objectionable  than  at  any  other  time, 
more  amenable  and  more  able  to  endure 
domestic  shocks. 

Upon  arriving  home  for  lunch  on  Satur 
day  of  the  particular  week  in  question,  my 
wife  met  me  in  our  hall  and  I  could  see  by 
the  vivid  little  patches  of  red  in  each  cheek 
that  something  had  excited  her. 


The  Lady  Next  Door         33 

"What's  the  matter,  Bunny  dear?"  I 
cried.  I  always  call  my  wife  "Bunny  dear" 
in  times  of  stress  or  when  in  argumentative 
vein.  I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  do  it,  for 
it  is  a  silly,  foolish  name,  too  commonplace 
for  words,  but  it  has  become  a  habit,  just 
like  the  movies  or  the  League  of  Nations, 
no  better,  no  worse. 

"Nothing  is  the  matter,"  replied  Sue; 
"but  who  do  you  suppose  bought  the  Colt- 
ings  house  and  is  already  in  it,  bag  and  bag 
gage?" 

"Can't  imagine,"  I  answered,  "unless  it's 
William  Jennings  Bryan  or  Theda  Bara." 

"It's  the  Lady  Next  Door,"  declared  Sue, 
with  all  the  stage  presence  to  which  such  a 
statement  was  entitled. 

Remembering  the  far-famed  story  of 
doubtful  origin  upon  the  recent  visit  of  the 
Queen  of  Belgium,  I  could  only  echo  faintly, 
"  Sue,  you  've  said  a  mouthful." 


34    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

At  lunch  I  mustered  up  my  courage  and 
asked  my  wife  if  she  had  thought  of  calling 
upon  our  new  neighbor. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied,  "we  must  make 
it  as  pleasant  as  possible  for  her.  You  re 
member  how  much  we  appreciated  how  peo 
ple  tumbled  in  upon  us  when  we  first  came 
here?" 

"Yes,"  I  remarked,  "and  most  of  them 
came  in  couples.  What  should  you  think  of 
our  strolling  over  there  together  this  after 
noon?" 

"Fine."  (Sue was  becoming  almost  slangy, 
from  the  children.) 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  the  Lady  Next 
Door  is  now  one  of  our  neighbors  and  quite 
the  most  intimate  of  Sue's  friends.  What 
curious  pranks  propinquity  can  play  and 
what  wonderful  things  Dame  Nature  ac 
complishes! 


THE  TRAINED  NURSE 


THE  TRAINED  NURSE 

Now  that  the  various  members  of  my  fam 
ily  are  all  downstairs,  eating  three  perfectly 
good  meals  a  day  at  the  usual  hours  set  aside 
by  habit  for  digestion  and  contentment,  or 
indigestion  and  torment,  as  the  case  and 
cook  may  decree,  I  can  once  more  look  upon 
life  with  the  calm  assurance  that  for  the  time 
being  we  are  free  from  that  species  of  highly 
organized  modern,  the  trained  nurse. 

I  admit  at  the  start  that  nurses  are  indis 
pensable,  efficient,  a  solace  and  a  comfort. 
I  agree  to  their  presence,  welcome  their  com 
ing,  speed  their  parting,  and  obey  their 
slightest  whim;  but  I  have  at  all  times  the 
feeling  that  instead  of  being  master  in  my 
own  house,  I  am  really  inferior  to  the  hired 
man,  who  makes  himself  doubly  useful  by 
bringing  up  the  wood  both  when  it  is  needed 
and  when  it  is  not. 


38    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

The  ordinary  man  of  thirty-five  who  is 
blessed  with  a  wife  and  the  ordinary  number 
of  children  is  certain  to  have  encountered  a 
number  of  trained  nurses.  It  may  be  said 
with  perfect  propriety  that  he  has  become 
intimately  associated  with  them.  As  a  mat 
ter  of  fact  they  are  ubiquitous,  gliding  softly 
about  by  day  in  immaculate  white  (fre 
quently  laundered  at  considerable  expense 
to  himself)  and  by  night  in  gayly  fashioned 
kimonos,  often  of  a  pattern  which  sets  one's 
teeth  on  edge.  They  glide  with  equal  assur 
ance  and  modesty  in  either  garb,  and  I  for 
one  am  at  all  times  aware  of  their  entire  dis 
regard  of  my  presence. 

This  winter  might  well  be  termed  an  open 
season  for  trained  nurses.  At  least  it  turned 
out  to  be  so  in  my  family,  for  one  after  an 
other  nearly  every  member  of  the  family  was 
at  one  time  laid  low.  It  was  of  course  hard 
for  all  of  them,  but  it  was  also  hard  for  me. 


The  Trained  Nurse  39 

In  the  first  place,  my  business  affairs  were 
trying  in  the  extreme.  No  one  who  has  any 
thing  to  do  with  a  large  force  of  people  has 
escaped  what  the  world  calls  "labor  trou 
bles"  and  gloats  over,  and  what  I  call  the 
greatest  menace  which  has  come  to  life,  lib 
erty,  and  the  pursuit  of  happiness. 

In  the  second  place,  the  expenses  of  living 
were  so  closely  mated  to  the  limits  of  my 
income  that  any  extraordinary  expense  top 
pled  the  balance  over  into  the  debit  column 
of  my  household  ledger  with  all  the  attend 
ant  worries,  with  which  again  the  ordinary 
business  man  of  thirty-five  or  thereabouts  is 
equally  familiar. 

And  lastly,  I  was  genuinely  concerned 
over  the  health  of  my  small  son,  who  failed 
to  rally  from  his  operation  as  rapidly  as  we 
all  had  hoped. 

After  what  seemed  an  interminable  period 
of  financial  drain  and  complete  occupation 


40    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

of  my  Lares  and  Penates,  the  house  once 
more  became  normal,  and  I  could  review  at 
leisure  the  physical  and  mental  eccentricities 
of  the  quartet  of  nurses  who  had  wintered 
in  the  front  guest-room,  newly  papered  in 
delicate  lavender,  with  yellow  chintzes,  and 
filled  with  the  choicest  of  our  collection  of 
antique  furniture. 

The  first  was  Miss  Barbara  Q.  Winston. 
I  remember  it  in  detail  because  we  called 
her  "question"  hi  the  sanctity  of  our  own 
apartment.  Her  questions  put  the  ordinary 
four-year-old  to  shame.  I  also  remembered 
the  name  because  of  her  weekly  checks. 

Miss  Winston  was  one  of  those  placid 
creatures  who  are  a  real  comfort  in  times  of 
serious  illness  when  quiet  is  necessary  and 
watchfulness  imperative;  but  with  con 
valescence  the  placidity  became  irksome. 
She  seemed  anchored  to  the  place,  and  her 
conversation  bravely  attempted  and  hon- 


The  Trained  Nurse  41 

estly  intended  got  upon  my  nerves.  It  was 
prefaced  invariably  by  "I  don't  suppose." 

"I  don't  suppose  you  had  any  trouble  in 
getting  home  this  evening,"  I  remember  her 
saying  one  night.  Now  as  a  matter  of  fact  I 
did  not  have  any  trouble  in  getting  home, 
but  it  was  the  first  time  for  a  week  that  I  had 
not  had  a  beast  of  a  time,  for  we  had  experi 
enced  an  old-fashioned  blizzard.  Her  ques 
tion  made  it  out  that  homecoming  was  an 
easy  matter,  while  I  felt  it  to  be  a  positive 
triumph  and  an  unique  event  to  come  out 
by  train  and  arrive  on  time. 

One  morning  she  came  smilingly  to  break 
fast,  and  after  consuming  her  grapefruit 
broke  the  silence  by  saying, "  I  don't  suppose 
it  would  be  of  any  use  to  ask  the  doctor  to 
come  in  this  morning."  My  breakfast  stuck 
in  my  throat,  my  wife  grew  pale  and  rose 
unsteadily.  We  imagined  the  worst. 

"  Why,  what 's  the  trouble?  "  I  managed  to 
gasp. 


42    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  she  replied  sweetly;  "Wil 
liam's  temperature  is  normal,  and  I  thought 
if  the  doctor  came  he  might  let  him  up  part 
of  the  day." 

And  so  it  went  on  until  the  day  of  de 
parture,  when  her  last  words  were,  "I  don't 
suppose  we  shall  meet  again";  and  even 
then  I  did  not  dare  agree  with  her,  but  my 
fervent  wishes  echoed  her  thought. 

Mary  Boyle  was  a  fat  girl  with  a  beautiful 
complexion  and  a  voice  like  a  cyclone.  Why 
she  ever  took  up  nursing  I  cannot  imagine, 
and  those  who  permitted  her  to  practice  the 
art  should  have  been  treated  as  criminals. 
Her  metier  should  have  been  in  the  auto 
matic  basement  of  a  department  store, 
where  her  qualities  of  speech  and  personal 
strength  would  have  given  her  a  strangle 
hold  on  any  bargain  hunter. 

Mealtimes  with  trained  nurses  stand  un 
rivaled  among  the  social  amenities  of  the 


The  Trained  Nurse  43 

present  day.  To  a  polite  query  on  my  part 
as  to  her  home  she  boomed : 

"My  people  belong  in  Kalamazoo.  Fa 
ther's  in  the  building  trade.  Used  to  be  a 
mason,  but  now  he 's  a  contractor." 

I  congratulated  her  upon  her  good  fortune 
and  mumbled  something  about  the  rapidity 
with  which  he  seemed  to  ascend  the  laddei 
of  fortune. 

"He  don't  climb  no  ladders,"  she  coun 
tered  with  some  spirit.  "He  sits  in  an  office 
just  like  you  does.  We've  got  an  elegant 
house  he  built  himself.  Just  got  it  done  the 
last  time  I  was  home.  It's  real  cute,  all 
stucco  and  fine  plate-glass  windows.  Every 
thing  is  up  to  the  minute"  —  and  then  she 
went  into  minute  details  as  to  the  bathroom 
fixtures,  which  gave  us  an  indelible  image  of 
that  highly  useful  apartment  of  which  one  re 
sembles  another  in  this  country  ad  infinitum. 

Miss  Boyle  came  during  a  period  of  con- 


44    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

valescence.  Heaven  knows  what  we  should 
have  done  with  her,  or  what  she  would  have 
done,  if  our  little  patient  had  been  seriously 
ill  at  the  time,  for  her  boisterous  personality 
and  lack  of  culture  were  a  torture  to  us  all. 
I  know  she  was  an  exception  to  the  general 
rule,  and  I  cursed  our  luck  each  evening  as  I 
journeyed  dismally  home  from  the  office. 

Our  third  visitation  was  on  the  occasion  of 
Mary  Bird's  measles.  It  seemed  to  me  hard 
lines  that  Mary  Bird,  aged  ten,  should  have 
measles  this  year  of  all  years,  but  it  was 
infinitely  worse  for  her,  poor  little  mite,  for 
it  came  the  day  before  the  last  dancing  class. 
It  had  been  a  particularly  trying  day  at  the 
office,  and  I  came  home  with  visions  of  a 
quiet  evening  unruffled  by  domestic  trials, 
to  find  my  wife  on  the  sofa  completely  dis 
couraged,  and  Miss  Wheatherby  installed 
upstairs.  The  "$35.00  per"  was  apparently 
going  on  forever. 


The  Trained  Nurse  45 

Measles  is  a  nuisance,  but  it  is  not  so  seri 
ous  but  that  the  family  can  take  its  meals  at 
the  accustomed  hours,  and  so  at  dinner  Miss 
Wheatherby  made  her  appearance  and  I 
made  the  most  courteous  obeisance  I  could 
muster. 

Miss  Wheatherby  was  efficiency  itself, 
but  as  a  dinner  companion  she  was  a  disaster. 
Her  whole  life,  it  seemed,  was  enveloped  in 
her  work,  and  at  table  she  gave  us,  one  upon 
another,  in  terrifying  clearness  the  accounts 
of  her  latest  victims. 

With  soup  she  told  us  that  she  had  just 
come  from  an  appendix  victim,  who  had 
been  in  the  hospital  nine  weeks  with  com 
plications  which  appeared  to  me  unbeliev 
able. 

During  the  meat  course  she  touched  upon 
the  vitality  of  an  old  woman  who  had  under 
gone  an  operation  for  gallstones,  and  for 
some  reason  which  1  did  not  understand  the 


46  The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

operation  was  not  successful  and  had  to  be 
repeated;  and  at  dessert  she  told  with  real 
relish  of  an  operation  she  had  witnessed 
where  the  patient  had  a  tumor  on  the  brain 
which  was  successfully  removed  through  the 
nose. 

For  two  days  my  digestive  organs  suffered 
acutely,  and  then  I  gave  up  coming  home  to 
meals  until  Miss  Wheatherby,  bag  in  hand 
and  check  in  pocketbook,  took  her  departure 
in  pursuit  of  some  unfortunate  with  a  symp 
tom  worthy  of  her  chronicle. 

With  the  measles  over  and  spring  in  full 
sway,  we  felt  that  peace  and  quiet  had  come 
to  our  household;  but  not  so.  James,  our 
third  and  youngest,  aged  four,  was  an  ad 
venturer.  He  had  found  an  old  swing  in  the 
back  yard,  and  in  propelling  himself  through 
the  air  at  a  moment  when  his  nurse  was  pre* 
sumably  watching  for  the  postman,  he  lost 
his  balance  and  broke  his  arm  in  two  places. 


The  Trained  Nurse  47 

That  was  the  occasion  for  the  installation 
of  Miss  Grace  Minturn. 

The  last  catastrophe  came  as  the  prover 
bial  last  straw  for  my  wife,  who  took  to  her 
bed  for  a  week  with  sheer  exhaustion  and  a 
touch  of  acute  indigestion.  Consequently, 
Miss  Minturn  and  I  had  it  all  to  ourselves  at 
dinner  each  night,  and  I  confess  it  was  not 
bad  at  all. 

I  rather  fancy  Miss  Minturn  was  a  favor 
ite  at  her  hospital,  and  I  suspect  that  she 
had  given  some  of  the  younger  doctors  a 
"real  time."  She  reminded  me  in  appear 
ance  of  the  Red  Cross  nurse  in  one  of  the  war 
posters.  In  short,  Miss  Minturn  was  a 
peach,  and  we  conversed  upon  the  latest 
jazz  and  never  referred  by  word  or  thought 
to  the  bitter  struggle  of  suffering  mankind. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  week  there  came 
a  warm,  beautiful  day,  which  might  have 
passed  for  summer.  It  seemed  to  me  hard 


48    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

that  Miss  Minturn  should  not  have  a  bit  of 
fresh  air  and  so  I  suggested  a  little  spin  in 
the  motor  after  dinner.  As  James  was  sleep 
ing  the  sleep  of  the  innocent,  she  gratefully 
accepted,  and  we  ran  through  the  Park  Sys 
tem  and  remained  out  for  an  hour  or  so.  I 
found  her  a  delightful  companion. 

The  next  morning,  to  my  great  surprise, 
my  wife  joined  us  at  breakfast,  declaring  that 
she  felt  quite  fit  again.  I  was  delighted. 
That  evening  when  I  returned  Miss  Minturn 
was  no  more.  My  wife  merely  said  that  she 
and  our  nursemaid  were  now  quite  capable 
of  taking  care  of  James  and  that  it  hardly 
seemed  necessary  any  longer  to  pay  for  a 
trained  nurse  unless  I  enjoyed  this  form  of 
extravagance.  There  was  the  least  glint  in 
her  eye,  but  enough  to  keep  me  silent.  And 
so  ended  our  winter  of  trained  specialists. 


THE  SHOW  GIRL 


THE  SHOW  GIRL 

THE  T.  B.  M.  was  first  discovered  in  a  front- 
row  seat  at  a  musical  comedy.  It  must  not, 
however,  be  imagined  that  this  is  his  habit 
ual  or  permanent  haunt.  It  is  simply  his 
method  of  passing  away  the  time  when  he  is 
on  a  business  trip,  or  when  he  is  kept  in 
town  late  by  pressure  of  work,  or  when  he 
has  friends  from  other  cities  to  entertain,  or 
when  he  is  fed  up  with  the  sort  of  dinner 
which  is  served  upon  cook's  night  out,  or 
when  a  few  classmates  decide  to  have  a  re 
union,  or  when  —  but,  nevertheless,  it  is  not 
his  invariable  custom  to  occupy  this  posi 
tion,  believe  it  or  not  as  you  may.  •-  , 

Some  assert  that  the  T.  B.  M.  first  dis 
covered  musical  comedy,  others  that  the 
T.  B.  M.  was  first  discovered  and  that,  as 
a  result,  musical  comedies  came  into  being, 


52    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

like  Adam  and  Eve.  I  am  rather  of  the  opin 
ion  that  the  T.  B.  M.  came  first,  as  I  can 
never  imagine  a  world  without  this  ornament 
of  the  male  sex,  but  the  present-day  musical 
comedy  rather  bears  out  the  Eve  theory, 
for  the  producers  are  striving  their  best  to 
reproduce  the  original  and  they  are  close 
upon  success. 

While  the  T.  B.  M.  rejoices  in  the  thick 
ness  of  his  pocketbook,  which  permits  the 
purchase  of  a  front-row  seat  or  a  Rolls-Royce 
(they  are  both  about  the  same  price  now), 
he  has  passed  the  age  which  hastens  from 
the  lobby  to  the  stage  door  and  from  there 
in  company  with  another  to  one  of  those 
hospitable  caravansaries,  where  by  deposit 
ing  a  small  fortune  one  may  secure  a  grape 
fruit  salad  and  something  in  a  glass  which 
may  kill  at  sight.  Yes,  he  has  passed  that 
age,  but  he  still  looks  upon  it  with  great 
interest  and  a  certain  regret,  and  if  now  and 


The  Show  Girl  53 

then  he  is  asked  to  join  a  little  party  of  this 
general  character,  he  invariably  accepts. 
Before  doing  so,  however,  he  is  apt  to  step 
into  the  washroom  adjust  his  tie,  pull  down 
his  waistcoat,  and  arrange  his  hair  in  the 
most  approved  and  camouflaged  manner. 

Most  men  will  carry  to  the  grave  a  linger 
ing  appetite  for  the  companionship  of  beau 
tiful  women.  The  day  for  them  of  chivalry 
is  over,  but  the  recollection,  only  too  vivid, 
of  pretty  faces,  merry  banter,  a  tinkle  of 
glass,  and  a  twang  of  string  as  the  music 
floats  about  them,  never  loses  its  allurement. 
So  the  T.  B.  M.  curses  himself  for  an  old  fool 
and  joins  the  table,  where  he  is  introduced 
to  Tansey  Tangerine,  whose  "pleased  to 
meet  you"  rather  jolts  his  sensibilities.  Af 
ter  an  heroic  effort  at  a  conversation  which 
no  vocal  power  on  earth  could  coax  from  the 
limits  bounded  by  Seventh  Avenue  on  the 
one  side,  Sixth  on  the  other,  and  ranging  up 


54    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

and  down  from  the  Circle  to  Forty-Second 
Street,  the  T.  B.  M.  decides  that  a  dance  is 
the  only  thing  to  relieve  the  situation.  While 
not  as  young  as  he  once  was,  the  T.  B.  M. 
is  by  no  manner  of  means  tottering  to  the 
grave.  His  tottering  is  decidedly  up  to 
date,  so  that  Tansey  is  forced  to  remark, 
"Say,  you're  simply  great!"  —  but  she 
spoils  it  by  adding,  "  Gee,  I  wish  the  other 
boys  could  dance  same  as  you,"  with  which 
she  resignedly  composes  her  cheek  against 
his  as  if  preparing  for  a  night  snooze. 

This  exploit  on  the  part  of  Tansey  gal 
vanizes  our  friend  into  action.  What  a 
blamed  old  fool  he  is!  Here  in  public 
dancing  fatuously  around  with  a  show  girl 
in  a  manner  which  only  the  week  before  he 
has  criticized  as  obnoxious  in  the  extreme. 
What  the was  he  coming  to? 

It  must  stop,  and  it  does  stop  when  the 
music  ends,  but  be  it  said,  alas,  for  our 


The  Show  Girl  55 

T.  B.  M.  that  the  manner  of  the  dance  re 
mains  the  same  until  the  last  bar  is  played. 
It  is  only  then  that  he  makes  his  excuses, 
and,  lighting  a  cigar,  Lwalks  back  to  his  ho 
tel,  cursing  inwardly. 


A  MOTHER-IN-LAW 


A  MOTHER-IN-LAW 

JUST  before  my  marriage,  I  heard  a  great 
many  stories  about  Mothers-in-Law.  It  was 
about  the  time  when  cartoonists  and  penny- 
a-liners  were  evidently  hard  put  to  it  for 
material.  There  was  a  wave  of  mother-in- 
law  propaganda  which  rolled  across  our 
continent,  gathering  momentum  from  every 
little  daily  paper  in  our  land  until  it  reached 
my  humble  lodgings,  where  my  associates, 
knowing  of  my  engagement,  directed  the 
current  straight  at  me  upon  all  occasions. 
Those  were  the  days  before  I  became  a 
T.  B.  M.  I  was  strong  in  confidence,  exuber 
ant  in  spirits,  immune  from  raggings,  and, 
being  thoroughly  and  completely  in  love,  I 
regarded  my  mother-in-law-to-be  with  awe 
tinctured  by  respect  and,  withal,  with  fas 
cination.  She  told  me  such  wonderful  stories 


60    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

of  my  Sue,  from  her  baby  days,  through  the 
Tomboy  age,  to  maidenhood.  I  drank  it  in, 
all  of  it,  and  a  lot  more;  for  I  heard  all  about 
Sue's  brothers  and  sisters  and  others  of  the 
clan,  and  just  then  the  Hood  family  was  the 
one  topic  which  possessed  the  deepest  inter 
est  for  me. 

I  still  regard  my  mother-in-law  with  awe. 
That  fund  of  family  information  has  been 
tapped  continuously  from  that  day  to  this, 
but  the  supply  is  apparently  as  copious  to 
day  as  then.  While  I  have  absorbed  a  vast 
amount  of  information  regarding  the  entire 
tribe  of  Hoods,  I  regret  to  say  that  an  equal 
if  not  a  greater  mass  of  genealogical  data  has 
passed  me  by  for  sheer  lack  of  mental  capac 
ity.  Mrs.  Hood  (my  wife  playfully  calls  her 
"Motherhood,"  but  I  do  not)  visits  us  at 
certain  intervals  —  at  Christmas-time,  in 
the  early  summer,  and  late  fall  —  one  week 
or  thereabouts  at  each  visit. 


A  Mother-in-Law  61 

It  is  at  such  times,  after  the  family  has 
retired,  that  I  sit  and  wonder  how  a  man  can 
change  so  completely  as  I  have  done,  and 
my  reflections  are  saddening.  Mrs.  Hood 
must  be  the  same,  only  more  so.  I  recall 
certain  of  her  family  stories  which  I  can 
trace  back  to  the  early  days  when  I  first 
heard  them.  They  are  the  same  stories. 
One  I  remember  about  Uncle  John.  Uncle 
John  was  in  love  at  that  time  with  Aunt 
Martha,  and  they  had  "philopened"  to 
gether.  Uncle  John,  as  was  his  wont,  called 
upon  Aunt  Martha  every  Sunday  afternoon, 
and  he  had  conceived  the  idea  of  ringing  the 
bell,  knowing  Aunt  Martha  would  open  the 
door,  and  of  shouting  "Philopena"  into  her 
ears  before  she  had  time  to  know  who  it  was. 
As  it  happened,  Aunt  Martha  knew  who 
was  there  —  and  who  would  not  under  the 
circumstances?  And  so  she  spent  some  time 
preening  in  front  of  her  mirror  before  answer- 


62    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

ing  the  bell.  In  fact,  she  was  so  long  in  com 
ing  that  Uncle  John,  restless  and  uneasy, 
took  to  studying  the  signs  upon  the  other 
side  of  the  street.  One  sign  in  particular 
attracted  his  attention.  It  was 

CASSIDY 

Caskets  and  Coffins 

Euphonious  and  rather  fascinating,  he 
thought,  as  well  as  gruesome.  Martha  must 
move  away.  The  neighborhood  was  dis 
tinctly  on  the  wane.  "  Cassidy  —  Caskets 
and  Coffins,"  he  repeated  thoughtfully. 
Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  caught,  as  it 
were,  unawares,  Uncle  John  shouted  at  the 
top  of  his  voice,  CASSIDY,  to  which  Aunt 
Martha  replied  at  leisure,  "Philopena!" 

It  was  a  perfectly  good  story,  and  I  re 
member  laughing  with  a  gentle  and  agree 
able  politeness.  Since  then  I  have  heard  it 
several  times,  and  I  have  been  known  to  tell 
it  myself.  Mrs.  Hood  got  it  off  to-night  as  a 


A  Mother-in-Law  63 

brand-new  one,  and  I  wondered  what  there 
was  so  devilishly  funny  about  it.  Yes,  it  is 
I  who  have  changed,  and  that  is  the  sad 
thing  about  it  to  me. 

Mrs.  Hood,  when  she  is  not  reminiscing, 
has  another  trait  which  now  and  then  comes 
to  the  surface.  She  has  a  way  of  seeing  re 
semblances.  She  has  been  with  us  only  two 
days  this  visit.  On  the  first  night  we  were 
all  having  dinner,  or  supper,  or  tea  —  what 
ever  you  call  it  when  the  children  sit  up  and 
the  cook  goes  out.  Mary  Bird  was  in  high 
feather  and  excited  over  Grandma's  ar 
rival,  and  her  little  face  was  flushed  and 
rosy. 

"Robert,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hood,  "I  do 
believe  Mary  is  going  to  be  a  real  Hood!" 
(Of  course  I  took  no  exception  to  that.) 
"  James  used  to  say  that  his  mother's  profile 
was  like  a  Grecian  cameo,  so  perfectly  chis 
eled  were  her  features,  while  her  complexion 


64    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

was  so  clear  and  white  that  she  was  known 
throughout  her  life  as  the  Lily  of  the  Valley.*' 
Poor  Mary's  little  snub  nose  and  her  ruddy 
complexion  were  but  a  background  for  the 
two  wide-gazing  blue  eyes  which  took  in 
these  remarks  against  the  time  when  she 
could  dart  to  the  mirror  to  see  how  the  Lily 
of  the  Valley  really  looked. 

At  another  time,  Mrs.  Hood  took^me  to 
task.  "Robert,"  she  remarked  with  genuine 
concern,  "you  ought  to  take  better  care  of 
yourself.  You  are  growing  more  and  more 
to  look  like  your  Uncle  Harry.  It  won't  do 
to  get  too  stout."  Uncle  Harry  died  of  apo 
plexy,  so  that  this  resemblance  stirred  in 
me  no  enthusiasm. 

"I  believe  the  time  has  come  when  you 
should  seriously  consider  going  on  a  diet," 
she  continued.  "Both  James  and  his  sister 
Amelia  tried  a  vegetarian  diet  and  were 
much  benefited." 


A  Mother-in-Law  65 

"But  they  both  had  rheumatism,"  I  in 
terrupted. 

"That  may  be,  but  it  did  them  good  just 
the  same,"  asserted  my  mother-in-law  con 
fidently.  "Then  Billy  Severance,  you  re 
member,  had  to  give  up  sugar  and  bread- 
stuffs  and  all  starchy  things." 

"He  was  threatened  with  diabetes,"  I 
explained. 

"He  actually  had  it,"  replied  Mrs.  Hood 
triumphantly;  "but  before  he  died  the  diet 
had  cut  his  weight  down  amazingly." 

"I'll  do  something,"  I  promised,  begin 
ning  to  fidget  over  the  prospects  of  symp 
toms  which  accompany  increasing  weight. 

"That's  right,"  replied  Mrs.  Hood  cheer 
fully.  "  I  knew  Sue's  husband  resembled  her 
father  in  being  able  to  rise  above  tempta 
tions  of  the  flesh.  What  a  man  he  was! 
What  a  life  he  led!" 

"What  a  life,  indeed!"  I  thought. 


66    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

The  climax  of  this  particular  visit  came 
later  in  the  week,  when  Sue  was  stricken 
with  a  sudden  and  severe  case  of  the  "flu." 
Mrs.  Hood  was  staying  over  to  go  to  the 
Beveridge  tea.  Mrs.  Beveridge  was  the 
daughter  of  an  old  friend,  and,  as  my  mother- 
in-law  had  declared  upon  several  occasions, 
Lila  Beveridge  was  almost  a  daughter.  "  Her 
mother  and  I  went  to  school  together,  and 
for  four  summers  we  lived  side  by  side  at 
Rye.  If  ever  two  girls  were  more  alike,  I 
should  like  to  know  it,"  she  often  remarked. 
No,  I  will  take  that  back.  She  did  not  re 
mark —  she  ejaculated;  for  this  statement 
was  given  with  such  strident  conviction  that 
it  awoke  memories  of  early  tales  I  had  heard 
about  Lila's  family.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
Lila's  mother  had  made  what  was  known  in 
those  days  as  a  brilliant  match.  There  was 
plenty  of  money  culled  from  the  successful 
sale  of  a  patent  medicine  by  Grandfather 


A  Mother-in-Law  67 

Brodkin,  who  was  never  mentioned,  and 
there  was  social  distinction  comfortably  se 
cured  from  the  ancestral  line  of  Brewsters; 
but  there  had  been  no  love,  and  an  overdose 
of  alcohol  had  done  for  Lila's  father,  who 
passed  the  last  years  of  his  life  in  an  asylum. 
Mrs.  Brewster,  Lila's  mother,  still  in  the 
social  whirl,  was  considered  a  cold  proposi 
tion,  and  she  certainly  showed  no  outward 
indication  of  having  treasured  the  recollec 
tion  of  those  four  summers  at  Rye  other 
than  by  an  occasional  card  of  invitation  to 
some  large  function  which  is  recorded  in  the 
papers  as  one  of  those  events  at  which  all 
the  world  was  present. 

Sue,  issuing  commands  from  her  bed, 
much  as  General  Shafter  in  the  Spanish  War 
led  his  forces  from  his  hammock,  dictated 
that  I  should  accompany  her  mother  to  the 
tea.  Of  all  abominations,  a  tea  to  the  T.  B.  M. 
is  the  most  revolting.  The  female  who  first 


68    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

promulgated  this  form  of  social  torture  must 
have  been  educated  in  the  Black  Hole  of 
Calcutta.  We  went  together,  and  by  a  mira 
cle  we  returned  together,  but  in  the  interval 
I  allowed  the  gyrating  mass  of  humanity  to 
carry  me  as  it  chose.  An  occasional  eddy,  or 
the  meeting  of  cross-currents,  would  bring 
me  face  to  face  with  some  one  of  the  opposite 
sex,  and  then  would  take  place  a  hackneyed 
form  of  conversation  which  went  like  this: 

I  (with  enthusiasm),  "Well,  well,  well, 
you  here!" 

She  (with  equal  enthusiasm),  "Of  course, 
but  how  about  you?  This  is  an  honor.  Lila 
must  be  an  old  flame.  Where  is  Sue?" 

I  (still  with  enthusiasm),  "Sue's  got  the 
flu."  Then,  remembering  the  enthusiasm, 
"But  she's  quite  all  right." 

She  (with  less  enthusiasm),  "Oh,  I'm  so 
sorry."  Then,  glancing  about  to  see  the  new 
fall  styles,  "Give  her  my  love  and  tell  her 


A  Mother-in-Law  69 

she  must  be  all  right  for  Friday's  luncheon 
—  sewing  circle,  you  know." 

I  (finding  that  the  currents  were  cross- 
circuited),  "Did  you  have  a  good  summer?" 

She  (still  looking  about),  "Perfectly  splen 
did.  We  were  at  North  East,  you  know"; 
and  then,  after  a  pause,  "Where  were  you?" 

I  (beginning  to  look  about  a  bit,  myself), 
"  Same  old  place  on  the  North  Shore.  Sorry 
you  could  not  have  come  down  for  the  week 
end." 

She  (suddenly  remembering),  "We  were 
so  awfully  disappointed,  but  Freddie  was  off 
on  a  cruise  at  the  time,  and,  oh,  well,  you 
know  how  busy  the  summer  is.  It's  so  hec 
tic,  with  the  children  and  all  —  what  was  it 
I  was  saying?" 

I  (with  renewed  enthusiasm),  "About  the 
hectic  children." 

She  (turning  from  the  styles  to  say  im 
pressively),  "Oh,  yes,  we  wanted  you  so 


70    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

much  to  come  up  for  a  few  days,  but  the 
summer  was  so  full  up,  and  Billy  had  sum 
mer  grip." 

At  this  point  the  currents  suddenly  be 
came  surcharged  with  energy  and  I  found 
my  vis-a-vis  had  vanished,  only  to  be  re 
placed  by  another  with  the  same  vocal  result. 

After  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  of 
this  sort  of  thing,  I  managed  to  escape  to  the 
coat-room  for  a  cigarette  and  a  breath  of  air. 
Freddie  happened  to  be  there  for  the  same 
reason. 

"Rotten  business  this,"  I  remarked. 

"Worst  kind  of  mess,"  he  replied.  "By 
the  way,  I  was  frightfully  sorry  we  could  not 
come  down  to  your  place  last  month  when 
you  asked  us.  I  was  keen  to  go,  but  Bella 
had  a  perfect  mania  for  auction  and  could 
not  bear  to  give  up  a  single  day  with  the 
Cranstons  while  they  were  there.  We  had  a 
hot  competition." 


A  Mother-in-Law  71 

"Humph/'  I  thought,  "I  wonder  which  is 
right." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  '11  put  on  my  hat  and  coat 
and  wait  outside."  Which  I  did  for  some 
little  time,  Freddie  leaving  me  for  the  quiet 
of  his  club,  the  evening  paper,  and  "some 
thing"  to  take  the  taste  of  the  tea  and  cake 
away,  as  he  explained. 

On  the  way  home  Mrs.  Hood  attested  that 
it  was  the  most  delightful,  and  by  all  odds 
the  smartest,  tea  of  the  season! 


THE  NEW  STENOGRAPHER 


THE  NEW  STENOGRAPHER 

To  lose  one's  secretary  is  much  the  same  as 
to  lose  the  power  of  speech  or  the  use  of  one's 
good  right  arm.  It  is  a  form  of  paralysis, 
painless,  but  the  occasion  of  great  mental 
suffering  and  a  total  loss  of  temper.  In  short, 
it  is  a  catastrophe  of  the  major  order  and  to 
the  T.  B.  M.  it  spells  disaster. 

To  those  of  the  "Pollyanna"  class,  who 
are  thankful  for  their  blessings  and  recog 
nize  them  not  only  by  sight  but  intuitively, 
the  sun  and  the  moon,  the  three  sensible 
meals  a  day,  the  comfortable  bed  and  con 
genial  friendships  are  wonders  for  which 
they  never  fail  to  rejoice,  never.  But  to  the 
T.  B.  M.  such  matters  are  taken  for  granted. 
It  is  only  when  the  sun  fails  to  appear,  the 
cook  leaves,  the  bed  squeaks,  or  the  friends 
fail  to  drop  in  that  he  begins  to  notice  the 


76    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

amenities  of  life,  and  then  he  takes  notice 
with  a  vengeance  and  with  piteous  com 
plaint.  And  so  the  departure  of  his  secretary 
for  more  fertile  fields  of  pecuniary  harvest 
ing  brought  havoc  into  his  life. 

An  efficient  private  secretary  is  one  of  the 
most  wonderful  products  of  modern  life.  She 
is  the  grand  vizier  of  modern  times,  no  mere 
employee  or  cultivated  menial.  She  is  a 
business  helpmate,  confidential  in  all  mat 
ters  pertaining  to  financial  existence,  famil 
iar  with  the  innermost  recesses  of  one's  busi 
ness  mind  and  mood,  but  undemonstrative 
to  an  almost  inhuman  extent  and  incom 
municative  to  an  incredible  degree  upon  any 
subject  other  than  business.  Such  is  the 
product  of  the  times  when  brought  to  the 
nth  power  of  efficiency.  There  are,  of  course, 
secretaries  and  secretaries  —  good,  bad,  and 
indifferent;  and  also  there  are  those  who  are 
different,  where  the  personal  touch  is  at 


The  New  Stenographer        77 

times  overdone,  even  where  it  stretches  to 
ward  romance,  when  the  daily  routine  is 
fraught  with  other  problems  of  a  less  imper 
sonal  character,  but  such  occasions  are  rare 
in  these  days.  The  T.  B.  M.,  being  a  T.  B.  M., 
is  an  automaton  in  office  hours  and  expects 
the  wheels  to  revolve  at  a  certain  speed  from 
ten  to  five-thirty  daily.  This  does  not  occur 
with  the  going  of  Miss  P.  S.  Her  going  has 
changed  the  entire  atmosphere  of  the  office. 
At  first  the  wheels  do  not  turn  at  all.  Miss 
N.  S.,  who  appeared  bright  and  early  one 
Monday  morning,  is  very  pleasant  and 
equally  nervous.  She  had  not  opened  any 
of  the  letters  for  fear  of  opening  some  which 
should  remain  sealed.  This  showed  a  certain 
amount  of  common  sense  and  a  dash  of  life's 
experience,  but  to  the  T.  B.  M.  it  was  a  nui 
sance.  After  the  mail  was  opened,  there 
came  dictation.  Now  the  T.  B.  M.,  although 
a  successful  and  brisk  person,  does  not  artic- 


78    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

ulate  as  he  should ;  therefore,  Miss  N.  S.  was 
obliged  to  say  "What?"  now  and  then, 
which  necessitated  beginning  the  letter  all 
over  again,  and  every  one  knows  that  an 
interrupted  letter  is  never  as  terse  or  as 
effective  as  one  when  the  dictator  is  allowed 
to  run  along  without  interference. 

Then  there  came  the  struggle  with  the 
addresses,  which  must  be  secured  from  the 
file,  an  indispensable  adjunct  to  the  office  of 
which  the  T.  B.  M.  knew  little.  It  seemed 
that  Miss  N.  S.  was  used  to  an  alphabetical 
file,  while  ours  was  unfortunately  numerical. 
An  important  and  large  part  of  the  morning 
was  therefore  spent  in  mastering  this  detail 
with  the  help  of  both  the  mail  and  filing 
clerks.  From  the  casual  remarks  which  Miss 
N.  S.  let  drop  from  time  to  time  as  to  the 
simplicity  of  the  alphabetical  system,  I 
felt  there  was  something  in  it,  but,  appar 
ently,  our  filing  clerk  took  it  as  a  personal 


The  New  Stenographer        79 

reflection  and  consequently  I  let  the  matter 
drop.  It  seemed  wiser,  for  I  did  not  wish  to 
lose  our  filing  clerk,  too. 

Among  my  letters  there  were  one  or  two 
which  called  merely  for  perfunctory  replies, 
and  these  I  passed  over  as  was  my  habit 
without  dictating  the  specific  answers,  giv 
ing  the  necessary  directions.  In  the  case  of 
one,  what  was  my  consternation  to  find  that 
Miss  N.  S.  with  a  commercial  courtesy  al 
most  painful  had  ended  the  letter  as  fol 
lows  — 

"Thanking  you  in  advance  for  past  favors, 
we  beg  to  remain,  etc." 

That  was  the  high  spot  in  a  hectic  day. 
Another  eccentricity  which  I  soon  discov 
ered  was  spelling.  It  is  curious  how  the 
habit  of  dependence  upon  others  becomes 
almost  incurable.  I  am  not  strong  myself  in 
spelling,  but  as  I  rarely  wrote  in  longhand  it 
did  not  matter  in  the  office  and  Miss  P.  S. 


80    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

seldom  made  a  mistake.  With  my  new  sec 
retary  the  basket  of  letters  disclosed  a  won 
derful  assortment  of  misspellings  and  a  total 
lack  of  punctuation.  I  grew  nervous.  Was 
"believe"  "ie"  or  "ei"?  Should  it  be 
"would"  or  would  it  be  "should"?  Was 
my  correspondent's  name  spelt  "Reed" 
or  "Read"  or  "Reade"  or  even  "Rhead"? 
I  felt  limp  and  discouraged  when  I  arrived 
home,  not  only  on  account  of  Miss  N.  S.,  but 
because  of  my  own  lapses.  Was  I  much  of  a 
fellow  after  all  if  the  simplest  venture  of  the 
office  could  not  go  on  because  of  the  depar 
ture  of  my  secretary?  Would  n't  it  go  better 
if  I  had  left  and  she  had  remained?  I  messed 
up  my  brain  with  such  stuff  as  this  until  it 
was  time  to  go  to  bed  and  then  thrashed 
about  on  the  same  theme  for  an  hour. 

The  next  day  a  new  set  of  circumstances 
provided  the  setting  for  my  leading  lady. 
I  had  explained  that  when  answering  tele- 


The  New  Stenographer        81 

phone  calls  she  should  ascertain  the  name 
of  the  person  calling  and  then  let  me  know 
who  was  on  the  wire.  Early  in  the  morn 
ing,  while  I  was  immersed  with  my  mail, 
she  reported  that  a  "Mr.  Stearns"  was  on 
the  line  and  wished  to  speak  to  me  pri 
vately.  Now  as  a  rule  unknown  men  who 
wish  to  consult  in  private  come  under  two 
headings  —  insurance  agents  and  persons 
asking  for  charity.  Being  absorbed  in  a  let 
ter,  I  replied  carelessly  that  I  was  busy  in 
a  conference  and  she  repeated  the  message. 
At  lunch  I  found  that  the  Stearns  of  the 
telephone  was  my  stock-broker  and  friend, 
Kerns,  who  had  a  tip  which  I  was  too  late 
now  to  take. 

When  it  came  to  the  intricacies  of  my 
personal  accounts,  she  broke  down  and  cried. 
If  she  had  not  done  so  I  should  have  fired 
her,  but,  of  course  male-like,  I  had  not  the 
heart  to  do  it  on  the  spot,  and  instead  com- 


82    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

pleted  my  own  account  and  remained  in  town 
for  dinner  as  the  result,  later  attending  one 
of  those  musical  pieces  of  bric-a-brac  com 
monly  considered  as  balm  to  the  T.  B.  M., 
but  which  seemed  to  me  to  savor  of  the  vin 
tage  of  the  early  nineties. 

And  so  it  went  for  a  week  or  two.  Miss 
N.  S.  mastered  the  file  and  consulted  the 
pocket  dictionary  which  I  had  presented  to 
her  the  first  week.  The  spelling  was  better, 
but  in  her  anxiety  on  this  score  she  devel 
oped  a  new  mania  for  leaving  out  words. 
For  instance,  in  a  long  letter  to  our  London 
house  I  found  the  following: 

"In  regard  to  the  Great  Northern  Lights, 
there  is  every  evidence  that  the  new  issue 
(First  Mortgage  Stinking  Fund),"  etc. 

It  is  probably  needless  to  point  out  that 
the  "Northern  Lights"  referred  to  is  "The 
Great  Northern  Power  and  Light  Corpora 
tion,"  and  that  "Sinking"  should  have  re 
placed  the  more  objectionable  word. 


The  New  Stenographer        83 

At  about  this  time  her  appearance  began 
to  get  on  my  nerves.  I  had  made  up  my 
mind  beforehand  not  to  allow  my  personal 
prejudices  to  have  anything  to  do  with  the 
choice  of  a  secretary.  Neither  age,  beauty, 
nor  the  question  of  dress  was  to  be  consid 
ered.  That  was  not  my  business.  But  I 
could  not  wholly  escape.  I  could  stand  her 
hair.  It  had  that  bushy  appearance  at  the 
ears  that  I  detest,  but  still  they  nearly  all  do 
it.  But  the  perfume  was  unendurable.  I 
cannot  tell  you  whether  it  was  "Mary  Gar 
den"  or  "Susan  B.  Anthony,"  but  I  can 
smell  it  to  this  day.  Along  with  most  men 
of  my  type,  I  felt  exceedingly  reluctant  to 
mention  the  subject;  in  fact,  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  do  it.  Instead  I  kept  com 
plaining  of  the  heat  and  opening  the  win 
dows.  I  also  spoke  of  the  fragrance  of  a 
cigarette,  and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  smoked 
a  good  deal  more  than  was  good  for  me. 


84    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

Finally  an  inspiration  came  to  me.  I  went 
and  had  a  haircut  and  then  bathed  my  head 
in  bay  rum  and  returned  reeking  to  the 
office. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  Miss  N.  S.," 
I  remarked,  as  apologetically  as  possible. 
"The  barber,  by  mistake,  put  bay  rum  on 
my  head.  I  was  reading  the  paper  at  the 
time  and  it  was  too  late  to  stop  him.  I  hope 
you  won't  mind;  it  shall  never  happen 
again."  All  falsehoods  and  all  perfect  rot, 
but  I  believe  the  thing  got  through  to  her 
brain,  for  I  did  not  notice  the  perfume  as 
much  after  that. 

In  short,  the  life  of  a  T.  B.  M.  and  his  sec 
retary  is  an  intimate  affair,  and  impersonal 
as  may  be  the  relationship  it  never  conceals 
the  eccentricities  of  each  from  the  other. 
The  T.  B.  M.  is  either  spoiled  or  tortured. 
The  secretary  is  —  well,  she  must  confess 
her  own  symptoms.  Her  loss  is  one  of  the 


The  New  Stenographer        85 

chief  trials  of  the  T.  B.  M.,  just  as  her  going 
is  in  an  egotistic  sense  a  business  triumph 
for  her.  But  then,  what's  a  secretary  or  two 
when  compared  with  taking  stock? 


A  NEAR-FLAPPER 


A  NEAR-FLAPPER 

WE  were  having  a  children's  party,  ft 
seemed  to  me  as  if  we  or  some  one  near  akin 
was  always  having  a  children's  party.  I  had 
that  feeling,  so  common  to  the  T.  B.  M.,  so 
disloyal,  and  yet  unintentionally  so,  that  I 
should  prefer  going  anywhere  but  home. 
Yet  home  I  went,  drawn  irresistibly  by  a 
New  England  conscience  and  that  parting 
word  from  my  wife  that  I  was  expected,  and, 
"Please  bring  some  chocolate  cigarettes." 

I  had  the  chocolate  cigarettes  in  my 
pocket,  and  as  I  hurried  along  the  incongru- 
ousness  grew  upon  me.  Why  cigarettes !  — 
even  if  they  were  chocolate;  for  the  party 
was  for  my  younger  daughter,  aged  twelve, 
and  the  party  was  exclusively  feminine. 

"Is  this  the  way  to  begin?"  I  pondered. 
"If  so,  there  is  only  one  end.  But  even  if 


90   The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

there  is  only  one  end,  what  of  it?  Cigarettes 
are  smoked  by  girls;  not  by  all,  to  be  sure. 
Will  they  smoke  less  if  they  do  not  see  smok 
ing  at  the  age  of  twelve,  or  not?  Will  choco 
late  cigarettes  lead  more  promptly  to  the 
real  thing?"  I  gave  it  up  and  started  to 
unlock  the  front  door,  when  it  suddenly 
opened  and  a  raging  mob  of  "near-flappers" 
with  bobbed  curls  a-flying  and  spindly  black 
legs  gyrating  below  a  mass  of  fluffy  ruffles 
swarmed  upon  me,  headed  by  Mary-Bird, 
my  daughter,  whose  voice  rose  above  the  din. 

"D'jer  get  thum?"  —  "Where  are  they?" 
—  "Quit  it,  Peg!"  —  (this  to  an  associate 
who  appeared  equally  interested). 

I  brought  forth  the  package  as  the  easiest 
method  of  assuaging  their  curiosity,  and 
with  a  "Gee!  Thanks,  Pa!"  Mary  dashed 
off,  carrying  the  cigarettes  much  as  a  center 
rush  in  football  carries  the  pigskin  from  an 
out-of-bounds  play. 


A  Near-Flapper  91 

My  mind  being  still  focused  on  the  larger 
aspects  of  the  case,  I  continued  to  observe. 

"Gee!  are  n't  they  swell!"  remarked  one 
little  lady,  the  daughter  of  a  prominent 
banker,  whose  wife  had  contributed  several 
articles  to  well-known  magazines  during  the 
past  year  or  two. 

"You  bet!'*  remarked  another  diminutive 
siren.  "They  look  just  like  the  kind  my 
father  smokes." 

"My  mother's  got  some  in  a  silver  box  at 
home,  but  they're  smaller!"  exclaimed  a 
cunning  little  tot  of  the  quiet,  inquiring  vari 
ety.  I  knew  the  species  and  could  picture 
her  at  twenty,  knowing  it  all  and  never  giv 
ing  it  away. 

"  They  're  simply  corking ! "  rioted  a  buxom 
blonde  who  had  outgrown  everything  she 
had  on  and  was  destined  to  continue  her 
course  if  not  restrained  from  sweets. 

Then  came  a  measure  of  silence  as  these 


92    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

maidens,  culled  from  society's  choicest  clois 
ters,  imitated  their  elders  and  pretended  to 
puff  their  cigarettes. 

"You  see,"  said  my  wife,  coming  up  and 
placing  her  arm  in  mine,  "Mary -Bird  is  no 
worse  than  the  rest." 

"There  speaks  the  guilty  mind,"  I  replied, 
smiling.  "Who  said  she  was?" 

"Well,  you  always  say  she  talks  like  a  — 
what  is  it  —  gutter-snipe.", 

"Well,  my  dear,"  I  inquired  innocently, 
"what  does  she  talk  like?" 

"I  don't  know;  like  the  boys,  I  suppose," 
replied  Sue.  "  I  don't  know  why  it  is,  but  all 
these  girls  seem  to  have  a  passion  for  doing 
just  what  the  boys  do.  They  call  each  other 
by  their  last  names.  They  play  football  and 
wear  their  bloomers  upon  all  possible  occa 
sions.  Their  hands  are  scrubby,  and  unless 
watched  by  some  one  each  and  every  little 
tot  would  develop  into  a  rowdy  with  no 


A  Near-Flapper  93 

manners,  but  'all  class,'  as  Mary-Bird  would 
say." 

"Well,  who's  to  blame?"  I  inquired. 

"It's  just  the  times,"  sighed  my  wife. 

"I  think,  then,  we  had  better  put  the 
clocks  back  a  little  farther,"  I  replied, 
straightening  my  waistcoat  as  I  always  do 
when  I  think  I  have  made  a  hit. 

In  the  evening,  after  the  house  had  re 
sumed  its  normal  appearance  and  quiet  had 
come  with  the  passing  of  Mary-Bird,  or  as 
her  friends  now  call  her,  Magpie,  to  the  up 
per  regions,  I  foolishly  took  up  the  subject 
of  the  children.  It  was  foolish  because  we 
were  both  tired  and  the  evening  after  a  chil 
dren's  party  is  not  the  time  to  discuss  pol 
icies.  However,  I  reverted  to  the  cigarettes 
because  they  offered  a  fair  target. 

"It  is  not  that  I  am  a  prig  or  old-fash 
ioned,"  I  began;  "you  know  that  as  well  as 
I;  nor  do  I  care  much  about  this  smoking 


94    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

business  in  itself;  but  what  bothers  me  is  the 
way  you  blame  present  conditions  on  the 
times."  (Here  I  began  to  climb  one  of  my 
hobby-horses.)  "It's  all  very  well  to  blame 
the  times,  but  the  times  don't  do  anything. 
It  is  the  people  who  act.  You  and  I,  and 
parents  in  general  and  particular,  are  so 
stupidly  easy-going  that  we  allow  our  young 
sters  to  act  pretty  much  as  they  please. 
They  who  are  too  young  actually  set  the 
standards,  and  we  who  are  too  weak  to  over 
rule  say  it  is  the  trend  of  the  times." 

Being  now  well  launched,  I  proceeded  out 
to  sea. 

"The  fact  is,"  I  continued,  "we  tell  our 
children  precisely  what  they  should  and 
should  not  do  until  they  have  arrived  at  the 
age  when  they  need  it  most,  and  then  we 
slink  away  from  our  responsibilities  and 
excuse  it  by  saying  it  is  the  times.  This 
slang,  this  movie  business  —  simply  rotten, 


A  Near-Flapper  95 

I  call  it."  (Here  my  wife  smiled.)  "Yes,  you 
see  I  get  the  habit  too.  Then  comes  this 
dancing  fad,  pagan  gyrations,  negro  music, 
double  hug.  The  children  are  perfectly  inno 
cent,  but  we  are  not,  and  Old  Father  Time  is 
named  as  chaperon.  It's  ridiculous." 

This  last,  or  perhaps  it  was  a  dropped 
stitch  in  the  sweater  my  wife  was  knitting, 
gave  the  first  opening. 

"Can  I  change  all  this?"  she  said,  too 
sweetly  to  deceive  me.  "  Don't  I  do  anything 
for  the  children?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  you  do;  we  all  do.  I  am 
glad  you  put  it  that  way,"  I  replied.  "We 
do  altogether  too  much  for  them  and  we  say 
too  little.  They  are  completely  spoilt  by  the 
way  parents  plan,  fetch,  and  carry  for  them. 
The  whole  summer  is  laid  out  ready-made 
for  their  enjoyment.  Racing  with  skilled 
boatmen  instead  of  bitter  experience.  Pic 
nics  with  food  prepared  by  mothers  instead 


96    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

of  by  themselves.  Tutors  to  do  the  chores  as 
well  as  to  teach.  The  whole  day  is  planned 
for,  hour  by  hour,  without  giving  them  an 
opportunity  to  develop  their  own  resources. 
In  the  winter  it  is  more  or  less  the  same,  as 
the  schools  arrange  for  games,  outings,  mu 
sic,  and  at  times  even  theaters. 

"But  there  is  no  time  or  effort  made  to 
put  a  boy  or  a  girl  on  his  or  her  own  until 
they  are  ready  for  college,  and  then  the 
parent  with  a  comfortable  bank  account 
sends  his  offspring  out  West  for  a  year,  or,  in 
the  case  of  a  daughter,  to  Europe,  to  gain 
just  that  independence  and  poise  which 
could  have  been  secured  at  home  with  less 
expense  and  with  common  enjoyment  and 
understanding  if  those  same  children  had 
been  left  more  to  themselves." 

"  It  seems  to  me,  my  dear,  that  you  have 
convicted  yourself,"  put  in  my  wife;  "first, 
you  say  we  ought  to  do  more  for  our  kiddies 
and  then  you  say  we  do  too  much." 


A  Near-Flapper  97 

"What  I  mean  is  that  we  do  too  much  for 
their  enjoyment  at  the  expense  of  their  ini 
tiative,  and  too  little  bringing  up  at  the 
expense  of  their  manners  while  they  are  in 
the  formative  period.  So  that  the  new  gen 
eration  —  not  all,  but  many  of  them  —  will 
be  without  resources  except  for  a  certain 
facility  at  games  and  without  the  fine  tradi 
tions  of  good  breeding  which  mark  the  men 
and  women  we  both  admire. 

"These  boys  and  girls  are  of  just  as  good 
stock,  but  they  are  coming  to  the  front  at  a 
time  when  rigid  notions  of  what  is  polite  and 
thoughtful  are  considered  old-fashioned,  and 
the  laxity  in  manners  is  shown  in  the  casual 
way  in  which  the  children  wear  their  clothes, 
leave  their  rooms,  throw  their  bicycles  on 
the  pavement,  and  eat  their  meals.  What  we 
need  is  a  little  of  the  old-fashioned  martinet 
to  bring  precision  and  responsibility  to  these 
little  joy-riders  through  life." 


98    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  remarked  my  wife,  fold 
ing  up  her  knitting,  "I  agree  with  every 
thing  you  say.  I  do  all  I  can,  and  I  think 
that  just  now  is  a  good  time  to  go  to  bed." 

And  thus  endeth,  as  usual,  the  T.  B.  M.'s 
sermon. 


THE  CHIEF  OPERATOR 


THE  CHIEF  OPERATOR 

EVERY  so  often  in  the  world's  history,  there 
has  come  a  catastrophe  so  great  as  to  over 
whelm  mankind.  The  Deluge  early  gave 
vogue  to  this  sort  of  thing,  Vesuvius  per 
formed  a  rather  neat  trick,  and  the  London 
Plague  is  not  forgotten. 

For  the  T.  B.  M.  the  telephone  strike  had 
much  the  same  effect.  It  is  true  that  no 
lives  were  sacrificed,  but  think  of  the  time 
lost  forever !  And  think  of  the  potential  busi 
ness  energy  and  the  latent  possibilities  for 
"  deals  "  which  never  materialized !  That  was 
what  the  T.  B.  M.  did  think  of  during  those 
trying  days.  His  mood  was  accentuated  by 
a  slight  bilious  attack  which  gave  point  to 
every  ominous  headline  indicating  no  relief 
in  the  situation. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  T.  B.  M.'s  occupa- 


102    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

tion  and  very  existence  depended  upon  the 
telephone.  His  clients  (he  preferred  that 
word  to  customers)  were  in  the  habit  of 
transacting  their  affairs  very  generally  over 
the  telephone,  and  consequently  the  office 
became  a  morgue  of  baleful  omen,  too  ut 
terly  depressing  to  be  suffered.  Goaded  by 
this  mental  torture,  the  T.  B.  M.  was  deter 
mined  to  see  what  could  be  done  in  the  way 
of  self-preservation,  a  very  natural  and  in 
stinctive  action.  He  determined  to  go  to 
headquarters,  and  see  for  himself  just  how 
matters  stood. 

This  visit  to  the  Exchange  was  only  ac 
complished  by  skillful  and  surreptitious  ref 
erences  to  his  friend  the  Vice-President, 
and  he  breathed  a  prayer  for  forgiveness  and 
albeit  protection  from  discovery  in  using  the 
great  man's  name. 

Arriving  finally  at  the  operators'  room, 
the  T.  B.  M.  was  vastly  surprised  to  find  a 


The  Chief  Operator        103 

number  of  girls  working.  The  place  seemed 
actually  busy,  although  it  was  quite  evident 
that  only  a  baker's  dozen  of  the  hundred  op 
erators  were  actually  at  their  posts.  There 
was  a  hum  and  a  continual  volley  of  clicks 
which  proved  that  some  patrons  were  being 
served.  He  became  hopeful  of  results.  If 
others,  why  not  he  himself,  here,  Johnny-on- 
the-Spot? 

At  a  desk  in  the  center  of  the  room  sat  a 
young  woman  of  perhaps  over-sturdy  but 
not  unpleasing  appearance,  a  person  of  de 
liberate  movement  and  a  certain  dignity  of 
carriage.  She  seemed  to  dominate  the  room 
in  a  quiet  but  effective  manner  which  struck 
the  T.  B.  M.  as  having  "some  class"  in  a 
time  like  this. 

Approaching  with  that  unmistakable  strut 
of  self -consciousness  which  the  male  of  the 
species  invariably  adopts  when  desiring  to 
make  a  complete  conquest  at  first  sight, 


104    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

the  T.  B.  M.  uncovered  his  shining  bald 
head  and  uttered  a  pleasing  if  somewhat 
hackneyed  "Good-morning."  The  young 
woman  was  as  deliberate  in  her  reply  as  she 
was  in  her  actions. 

After  answering  several  calls  with  an  ap 
pearance  of  utter  indifference,  she  turned 
upon  our  adventurer  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  such 
as  he  had  rarely  seen  equaled  on  either  side 
of  the  footlights,  and  said,  in  the  same  mat 
ter-of-fact  tone  which  she  had  used  when  ad 
dressing  the  instrument,  "What?" 

This  was  bad  business.  To  be  obliged  to 
repeat  a  vacuous  "  Good-morning "  was  not 
on  the  cards,  and  therefore  our  hero  pro 
ceeded  into  action  with  remarkable  agility 
for  a  T.  B.  M. 

"Look  here,  I'm  in  a  beastly  mess  all  on 
account  of  this  strike,  you  know,"  he  ex 
ploded,  tiny  beads  of  moisture  gathering  on 
his  shining  brow.  "This  is  an  emergency 


The  Chief  Operator         105 

and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Sorry  to  bother 
you,  and  I'm  afraid  it's  against  instructions 
and  all  the  red  tape  I  expect  is  about  the 
place;  but  really,  don't  you  suppose  you 
could  help  me?" 

The  power  here  gave  out,  and  in  the  in 
terval  the  blue  eyes  focused,  the  eyebrows 
arched,  the  expression  changed  to  one  of 
concern,  and  a  voice  spoke: 

"What  is  the  nature  of  the  emergency?" 

It  was  a  pleasant  voice,  but  not  a  cul 
tured  one.  The  enunciation  was  of  the 
made-to-order  type  which  left  one  with  the 
suspicion  that  "Aw,  g'wan,  you're  kiddin' 
me,"  would  have  sounded  more  natural 
from  the  same  vocal  chords.  But  the  effect 
was  kindly  and  colored  the  reply;  for  our 
T.  B.  M.  found  himself  adopting  a  slightly 
different  tone. 

"Business  —  money  —  a  deal.  You  un 
derstand  Miss  —  er  —  Miss?" 


106    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

"  Clancy,"  suggested  the  operator. 

"Miss  Clancy.  Do  you  know  of  any 
greater  emergency  during  business  hours 
than  that?" 

This  seemed  to  break  the  spell,  for  the 
eyes,  the  mouth,  and  even  the  nose  changed 
their  proportions,  and  Miss  Clancy  broke 
into  a  hearty  laugh  which  astonished  those 
underlings  about  her  who  were  purring  their 
replies  into  space  much  as  a  bee  whispers  to 
its  flowers. 

"Well,  how  did  they  let  such  a  live  wire 
as  you  come  in  through  that  door  without 
insulation,  I'd  like  to  know?  Who  said  you 
could  come  in  here  breaking  all  the  rules  of 
the  game?" 

The  T.  B.  M.  became  apologetic  at  once 
and  explained.  At  the  name  of  the  Vice- 
President,  Miss  Clancy  pricked  up  her  ears. 

"Did  he  give  you  a  pass?"  she  asked, 
cocking  her  head  on  one  side. 


The  Chief  Operator         107 

"He  did  not,"  the  T.  B.  M.  admitted. 
"He  does  not  know  I'm  here.  You  won't 
run  and  tell  him,  will  you?" 

Her  reply  was  cut  short  by  a  call  on  the 
wire. 

"What  is  the  nature  of  the  emergency?" 
The  tone  was  again  the  drab  matter-of-fact 
intonation  we  always  associate  with  tele 
phone  operators. 

"Accident  where?"  were  the  next  words, 
vibrant  with  a  new  attention. 

"Yes,  corner  of  Eighteenth  and  Main 
Streets.  Stay  on  the  wire  till  I  get  the  hospi 
tal.  I  '11  report  at  once." 

Then  and  there  took  place  a  remarkable 
demonstration  of  accuracy.  Within  an  in 
credibly  short  time  the  city's  emergency  and 
several  private  hospitals  were  notified  of  a 
bad  collision  at  the  corner  of  Eighteenth  and 
Main  Streets,  and  ambulances  were  directed 
to  the  proper  place  without  a  wasted  word 


108    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

and  with  calm  accuracy;  after  which  the 
blue  eyes  were  once  more  directed  at  the 
T.  B.  M.,  and  with  a  mischievous  twinkle 
behind  them. 

"Will  I  tell?  Say,  do  I  look  as  if  I  had 
time  to  go  to  the  Vice-President  and  tell  him 
I  had  a  caller?" 

"No,  of  course  not;  I  was  wrong,  any 
way,"  the  T.  B.  M.  hastened  to  admit. 
"This  message  you  have  just  put  through 
shows  me  I  was  entirely  wrong.  My  emer 
gency  is  not  like  that.  I  ought  not  to  have 
asked.  I  had  better  just  trot  along  back  and 
wait  for  things  to  clear  up." 

Putting  on  his  hat,  the  T.  B.  M.  started 
to  go,  when  his  new-found  friend  stopped 
him. 

"Say,  hold  on  a  minute.  Just  what  did 
you  want,  anyway?" 

"Two  calls  to  outlying  districts  that  I 
feel  are  urgent." 


The  Chief  Operator         109 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  moment, 
and  then  said,  "Say,  I'll  make  a  trade  with 
you.  I  won't  tell  the  Vice-President  about 
you,  if  you  don't  tell  him  about  me.  Num 
ber,  please?"  This  last  with  a  twinkle. 

The  T.  B.  M.  had  those  two  numbers  in 
less  than  no  time,  and  as  a  result  made  a 
turn  well  worth  the  effort.  When  he  had 
finished,  Miss  Clancy  asked  if  that  was  all. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "I  would  like  to  tele 
phone  home  to  say  that  I  am  coming  out  to 
lunch  and  advise  the  killing  of  the  fatted 

calf  and  all  that.  The  number  is  " 

Here  he  mentioned  the  suburb. 

At  this  request  Miss  Clancy  pondered.  "I 
don't  believe  that  exchange  will  put  through 
a  message." 

"We  might  try  'Emergency*  there,"  ven 
tured  the  T.  B.  M.  timidly. 

"I  won't,  but  you  can,"  retorted  Miss 
Clancy.  "I'll  give  you  the  operator  and 


110    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 
see  whether  she  is  as  easy  a  mark  as  I 


am." 


As  the  T.  B.  M.  said  "Hello,"  and  lis 
tened  for  the  reply,  what  was  his  amazement 
to  hear  the  familiar  voice  of  his  wife  asking 
sweetly  the  nature  of  the  emergency. 

"  Why,  Sue,  dear,  it  is  n't  any  emergency 
at  all.  It's  just  me,  but  what  are  you  do 
ing?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Helping  out  at  the  telephone  exchange," 
came  the  reply.  "But  what  made  you  tele 
phone,  and  how  could  you?" 

"Just  to  let  you  know  that  I  was  coming 
out  to  lunch  —  I  '11  tell  the  rest  later,"  and 
rang  off. 

"Say,  what  sort  of  a  kid  are  you,  any 
way?"  inquired  Miss  Clancy,  with  a  genu 
ine  curiosity  she  could  not  conceal.  "'Sue, 
dear,'  is  a  pretty  cozy  way  to  start.  I'll  be 
thinking  of  telling  the  Vice-President  after 
all." 


The  Chief  Operator         111 

"You  won't  believe  it,  I  suppose,  but  that 
was  my  wife,"  the  T.  B.  M.  hastened  to  ex 
plain,  much  to  Miss  Clancy's  interest. 

"She  must  be  an  honest-to-goodness 
peach  to  go  in  as  a  strike-breaker  just  to 
help  along.  I'm  mighty  glad  I  was  able  to 
fix  you  up  on  her  account,  and  please  tell  her 
so  from  me." 

Miss  Clancy  was  immediately  reassured 
on  this  point. 

A  few  days  later  "Chief  Operator"  re 
ceived  a  large  bunch  of  violets  with  a  card 
upon  which  appeared  the  following  inscrip 
tion: 

"Please  do  not  tell  the  Vice-President 
who  sent  this."  The  initials  which  appeared 
were  the  T.  B.  M.'s. 


THE  ATHLETIC  GIRL 


THE  ATHLETIC  GIRL 
IT  was  the  same  young  girl  I  had  seen  almost 
daily  for  at  least  eight  years,  and  yet  I  had 
never  known  who  she  was  or  even  what  her 
name  might  be.  On  my  daily  walk  down 
town  to  the  office,  she  had  passed  me  coming 
uptown  to  school.  I  did  not  know  whether 
she  lived  in  one  of  the  many  houses  which 
border  the  business  district  (for,  as  in  all 
American  cities,  business  is  invading  our 
residential  quarters  with  alarming  rapid 
ity),  or  whether  she  was  coming  from  a 
suburb. 

In  either  case  she  was  a  methodical  little 
puss,  for  I  invariably  met  her  within  a  block 
or  so  of  the  same  point  each  day,  and  as  we 
passed  I  never  failed  to  notice  her — T.  B.  M. 
that  I  am,  immersed  in  the  problems  of  how 
to  make  four  times  four  net  me  upwards  of 


116    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

seventeen,  just  to  win  out  over  an  old  world 
which  still  clings  to  the  multiplication  table 
even  in  these  days  of  tax  specialists. 

My  little  unknown  friend  grew  astonish 
ingly  with  the  years.  At  first  she  was  a  slip 
of  a  thing,  with  pigtails  and  skirts  as  short  as 
those  one  sees  on  the  street  to-day.  Incred 
ibly,  it  seemed  to  me,  she  shot  up  and  broad 
ened  into  symmetrical  girlhood,  but  always 
unmistakable  with  a  swinging  gait,  boyish, 
athletic,  and  vigorous.  She  was  never  in  a 
hurry,  but  she  was  invariably  pushing  on. 
There  was  a  drive  to  her  walk  which  even  as 
a  small  girl  I  noticed  in  its  similarity  to  some 
engine-driven  vehicle.  One  felt  that  there 
was  force  behind  it  which  pervaded  her 
whole  being,  and  I  often  wondered  what 
would  happen  to  the  man  who  would  some 
day  step  in  her  path. 

Her  clothes  were  fashioned  by  some  one 
akin  in  spirit  to  her  own  breezy  nature.  She 


The  Athletic  Girl          117 

always  wore  loose  pretty  garments ;  even  her 
shoes  were  chosen  to  give  full  play  to  her 
agile  feet.  Rough  homespun  suits,  a  Tarle- 
ton  plaid,  or  a  serge  skirt,  appearing  beneath 
an  English  ulster  effect  in  winter,  were  all 
that  I  remember  just  now,  which  after  all, 
you  will  admit,  is  something  for  a  T.  B.  M. 
But  it  was  all  quite  easy  because  of  the  real 
individuality  of  my  unknown  companion  of 
the  pavements.  A  glance  at  her  fresh,  ruddy 
face,  which  never  failed  to  bear  an  expres 
sion  of  expectancy,  of  pleasurable  anticipa 
tion,  was  a  tonic  in  itself.  I  suppose  she 
would  be  called  pretty.  Certainly  she  was 
not  beautiful,  and  I  fancy  she  cared  not  one 
straw  for  beauty  in  the  common  acceptance 
of  the  term;  but  with  her  figure,  which  was 
quite  perfect,  with  her  dark,  deep  coloring, 
and  light,  tawny  hair,  she  was  strikingly 
attractive,  and  I  missed  her  daily  passing  a 
year  or  more  ago,  when  for  some  mysterious 


118    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

reason  she  no  longer  crossed  my  path.  I 
suspected  that  she  had  completed  her  edu 
cation  so  far  as  school  is  concerned. 

Like  all  T  .B.  M.s  I  am  a  golfer.  That  does 
not  imply  that  I  play  golf,  but  I  play  at  it, 
and  I  assiduously  observe  true  form,  having 
taken  lessons  on  the  links,  in  the  athletic 
stores,  on  sundry  roofs,  and  in  front  of  my 
house  at  the  seashore,  where  I  collect  pine 
cones  and  drive  them  victoriously  into  the 
sea  some  few  yards  in  front  of  me.  This 
craze  for  form  has  led  me  of  late  to  follow 
the  professional  and  other  matches  about 
the  various  golf  links  with  which  our  sub 
urbs  are  plentifully  supplied.  This  after 
noon  I  had  set  aside  to  see  the  women's 
championship  match  between  the  East  and 
West,  and  although  there  were  a  number  of 
important  matters  at  the  office  I  felt  that 
health  was  after  all  the  most  important 
thing,  and,  therefore,  here  I  was  at  the  first 


The  Athletic  Girl          119 

tee,  and  there  she  was  defending  her  title  to 
golf  supremacy  —  the  Miss  X,  my  little 
schoolgirl  still  the  same!  How  incredible 
that  she  should  have  acquired  in  her  short 
life  what  I  with  all  my  hours  of  patient  prac 
tice  could  never  accomplish. 

I  watched  her  swinging  over  the  course 
with  that  driving  walk  which  was  but  the 
accompaniment  of  an  athletic  poise  which 
showed  in  every  movement  of  the  game, 
and  that  expectant,  compelling  expression, 
charming  and  convincing  of  what  character 
lay  behind.  Of  course  she  won,  and  of  course 
I  met  her  after  the  game  was  over.  In  fact, 
I  met  her  whole  family,  and  I  saw  to  it  that 
my  family  met  hers,  and  now  I  plan  to  watch 
her  development  in  other  branches  of  sport, 
for  she  has  the  poise,  the  eye,  the  figure,  and 
the  build  of  an  athlete.  I  suspect  that  she 
deplores  her  sex,  but  in  these  days  what 
matter?  What  more  hopeful  sign  of  our 


120    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

future  race  than  this  extension  of  the  manly 
sports  to  our  women?  If  they  will  play  the 
game  as  it  is  intended  that  sport  should  be 
played,  so  much  the  better  for  all  of  us. 


THE  AUTHORESS 


THE  AUTHORESS 

Now  and  then,  on  my  way  uptown,  I  drop 
in  to  see  my  old  friend  Park  and  try  to  per 
suade  him  to  come  along  with  me  for  a  walk 
or  a  quiet  game  of  billiards  at  the  club  before 
dinner.  Occasionally  he  falls  in  with  my 
plans,  but  generally  not.  Park  is  a  publisher, 
and  although  he  won't  admit  it  to  me,  I  con 
sider  him  a  T.  B.  M. 

His  contention  is  that  his  business  is  not 
only  his  business,  but  his  hobby  as  well,  and 
for  that  reason  he  is  at  it  night  and  day.  I 
never  saw  such  an  enthusiast  for  work,  and 
yet  upon  occasions  life  may  drag  along  with 
him  as  with  the  rest  of  us. 

This  particular  afternoon  in  April  was 
uncommonly  fine.  The  air  still  held  the 
crispness  of  winter,  but  with  the  light  glint 
ing  over  the  house-tops  on  the  hill  and  the 


124    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

fresh  earth  smell  of  April  in  the  air  one  felt 
the  spring  and  rejoiced  in  the  liberty  from 
business  confinement,  and  so  I  thought  of 
Park  and  determined  to  pry  him  away. 

Being  well  known  in  the  office  and  bent 
full  upon  my  own  idea,  I  walked  past  the 
various  supernumeraries  and  found  myself 
in  Park's  room  before  I  discovered  that  he 
was  in  conference  with  a  lady. 

"Sorry;  I  didn't  know  that  you  were 
busy,"  I  muttered,  starting  to  withdraw. 

"  Don't  go,"  replied  Park,  almost  eagerly 
for  him.  "Let  me  present  you  to  Miss 
Bashford.  You  know^of  Miss  Bashford,  of 
course." 

"Of  course,"  I  replied,  bowing.  "I  am 
delighted  to  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  a 
real  author.  It  is  a  rare  pleasure  for  me,  for  I 
am  not  as  fortunate  as  my  friend  Park  here, 
whose  business  I  have  always  felt  was  what 
his  friends  would  consider  a  literary  spree." 


The  Authoress  125 

Park  shot  me  a  glance  which  was  easy  to 
translate  into  "You  blamed  idiot,"  and  I 
cudgeled  my  brain  to  recall  just  what  Miss 
Bashford  had  written,  but  in  vain. 

"And  so  you  think  literature  is  a  spree?" 
inquired  Miss  Bashford. 

"Well,  perhaps  not  the  type  of  spree 
which  is  best  defined  as  orgy,"  I  replied, 
getting  in  deeper,  "but  naturally  a  business 
man  looks  upon  books  as  a  pastime,  for  he 
never  has  recourse  to  them  except  in  his 
hours  of  recreation." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  she  murmured.  "You  only 
read  for  recreation?" 

"I  cannot  say  I  read  very  much.  Now 
and  then  I  like  a  rattling  good  yarn  like  that 
cowboy  yarn  you  gave  me  last  week,"  I  said, 
turning  to  Park,  who  was  now  scowling  and 
evidently  regretting  that  he  had  asked  me  to 
remain. 

"  1  hardly  call  a  cowboy  story  literature," 


126    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

retorted  Miss  Bashford,  "but  I  suppose  it  is 
if  Mr.  Park  published  it." 

"You  must  admit,  Miss  Bashford,  that  a 
publisher  must  prepare  his  literary  menus 
with  an  eye  to  every  taste,  even  that  of  our 
friend  here,  the  T.  B.  M.,  who  reflects,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  the  average  demand  of  our 
public  to-day.  It  is  he,  who,  along  with 
thousands  of  other  T.  B.  M.s,  creates  the 
'big  seller/  Can't  you  persuade  him  other 
wise  while  I  step  out  for  a  moment?  There 
is  some  one  waiting  for  me  about  the  Lord 
knows  what." 

With  that  he  left  me  alone  with  Miss  Bash- 
ford.  A  wise  trick  I  thought  to  myself. 
What  the  deuce  did  Miss  Bashford  write, 
anyway?  —  not  cowboys  or  khaki,  nor  could 
I  persuade  myself  that  she  had  mastered  the 
subtleties  of  humor  or  the  pathos  of  love  itf 
distress.  No,  she  could  not  be  a  novelist,  or 
else  she  was  a  damned  bad  one.  Mustering 


The  Authoress  127 

up  my  courage,  I  settled  back  in  my  chair 
and  said  with  an  assumption  of  comfort 
which  I  did  not  feel: 

"Well,  here  we  are.  You  write  and  I  read. 
We  have  that  in  common." 

"Ah,  but  you  do  not  read  what  I  write, 
do  you?"  Miss  Bashford  smiled  as  she 
said  this,  which  broke  the  strength  of  the 
blow. 

"N-no,  I  don't  suppose  I  do,"  I  stam 
mered;  "but  then  you  really  don't  write  for 
me  to  read,  do  you?  That  is  to  say,  after 
what  I  said  about  cowboys  you  would  prefer 
to  write  for  some  one  who  reads  —  who  reads 
for  a  better  object  than  to  while  away  an 
evening." 

"I  write  for  those  who  are  searching  for 
Beauty  in  Life,  not  necessarily  for  the  soul, 
although  I  believe  that  to  attune  nature  to 
life  there  must  be  kinship  between  the  soul 
and  the  intellect.  But  I  write  to  sound  the 


128    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

rhythm  of  life  and  to  portray  thought  —  if 
you  know  what  I  mean." 

Unfortunately,  I  did  not,  and  I  was  men 
tally  gasping  in  my  attempt  to  grope  for  an 
answer. 

"It's  all  very  well  to  portray  thought,"  I 
replied.  "That's  what  the  Cubists  wanted 
to  do,  was  n't  it?  —  or  was  it  the  Futurists? 
In  any  event  they  portrayed  something  that 
nobody  could  understand  without  a  chart. 
Now,  Miss  Bashford,  if  you  portray  a 
thought,  how  do  you  do  it  without  giving 
the  trick  away?  —  I  mean  without  saying  in 
so  many  words  that  it  is  a  thought." 

"It  is  very  simple.  You  must  have  read 
allegories  in  your  youthful  days  and  your 
mother  or  your  nurse  pointed  out  to  you  the 
moral  of  the  tale.  In  a  way  that  is  what  my 
poetry  is,  only  the  allegory  is  not  a  fairy 
story,  nor  is  there  a  moral.  There  is  in  its 
place  a  thought  which  has  taken  on  form 


The  Authoress  129 

through  the  medium  of  the  rhythmic  words." 

"It  must  be  very  difficult,"  I  admitted. 

"  It  is,  because  you  see,  not  only  must  the 
poem  reflect  the  thought  perfectly,  but  the 
rhythm  must  be  in  harmony  with  the  spirit 
of  the  thought." 

"H'm,"  I  remarked.  "There  are  a  good 
many  thoughts  in  this  old  world  of  ours  and 
precious  little  harmony  to  some  of  them 
from  what  I  have  observed." 

"Yes,  that  is  true,"  continued  Miss  Bash- 
ford,  who  never  lifted  her  voice  above  a  low 
murmur.  "But  rhythm,  harmony,  disso 
nance  might  all  be  classified  under  what  I  call 
harmony.  The  harmony  which  would  ac 
company  an  unpleasant  or  wicked  thought 
would  naturally  be  a  jangle  of  discord  which 
in  verse  would  be  expressed  in  unmetrical 
stanzas  where  the  choice  of  words  them 
selves  would  lend  color  to  the  sound." 

Her  voice  trailed  off  into  a  lower  murmur 


130    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

as  I  lost  all  sense  of  what  she  was  driving  at. 
I  simply  watched  her  spellbound  as  she 
dived  into  the  recesses  of  her  agile  brain  and 
brought  forth  bit  by  bit  her  fetish,  for  now  I 
knew  her  to  be  so  entirely  absorbed  by  her 
own  obsession  that  it  was  idle  either  to  try 
to  stem  the  current  of  her  thought  or  to 
counter  by  such  feeble  criticism  as  I  could 
muster. 

Miss  Bashford  was  petite,  almost  pretty, 
and  as  she  sat  there  perched  upon  an  office 
chair,  fashionably  dressed,  girlish  in  figure, 
animated  in  a  repressed  sense  of  the  word, 
I  wondered  at  a  Fate  which  had  clouded  her 
youth  with  such  a  heavy  consciousness  of 
intellect,  for  with  all  her  earnestness  and 
conviction,  I  could  not  help  feeling  that 
there  was  a  self -consciousness,  almost  a  pose, 
to  the  whole  thing. 

Fortunately,  before  I  was  called  upon  to 
say  more,  Park  returned  and  Miss  Bashford 


The  Authoress  131 

left,  having  deposited  a  large,  bulky  manila 
envelope  upon  my  friend's  desk. 

"Yes,  we  will  write  you  within  a  week,"  I 
heard  him  say  to  her  at  the  door.  "  Oh,  no,  it 
will  be  kept  in  our  vault  except  at  such  times 
as  it  is  in  the  hands  of  our  readers.  You  may 
be  sure  that  it  will  have  a  sympathetic  read 
ing.  Good-bye." 

"Whew!"  —  returning  to  his  desk  Park 
flopped  into  his  chair. 

"  I  thought  you  told  me  your  business  was 
a  hobby,  Park,"  I  observed. 

"Did  1?  Well,  well,  fishing  is  yours,  is  n't 
it?" 

"You  know  it  is,"  I  replied. 

"How  much  fun  did  you  have  when  the 
canoe  upset  in  the  upper  Cascopedia  last 
spring  and  you  trailed  back  to  the  camp 
nearly  frozen?" 

"  All  right,  quits !  —  and  get  your  hat  and 
coat,"  I  returned,  laughing  and  jabbing  him 


132    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

with  my  cane.  "  But  who  is  this  paragon  of 
versical  virtue?" 

"Miss  Bashford?  Oh,  she's  one  of  these 
moderns,  who,  if  she  perseveres,  will  get 
there  simply  because  she  has  one  fixed  idea 
of  a  rather  novel  sort  with  unlimited  nerve 
and  —  other  resources,"  remarked  Park, 
somewhat  vaguely. 

"Oh,"  I  said.  "And  does  she  pay  the 
public  to  read?" 

Park  roared  at  this.  "They  don't  read 
them!"  he  continued;  "that  is,  not  yet.  In 
publishing  we  do  a  good  deal  of  living  in 
hope.  To  provide  shoe-leather  and  the  other 
things  necessary  to  the  present,  we  bring  out 
a  few  cowboy  books.  Come  along,  it's  time 
for  that  game  of  billiards.  Shall  it  be  cow 
boy?"  said  Park  with  a  smile. 


THE  NEW  VOTER 


THE  NEW  VOTER 

"WHAT  do  you  think  of  the  election,  Neal?" 
I  inquired  of  my  friend  as  we  walked  down 
town  the  morning  after  the  State  election. 

"Fine,  simply  splendid,  a  walk-over  for 
the  whole  ticket.  Could  it  be  better?" 

"No,"  I  replied,  "it  couldn't,  and  our 
women  apparently  did  a  good  job." 

"I  should  say  they  did,"  he  continued, 
bubbling.  "They  took  no  party  lines  as  far 
as  I  can  see  —  just  voted  for  the  right  man. 
You  will  find  their  hearts  are  in  the  right 
place." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  answered  musingly; 
"that's  just  it.  Their  hearts  are  all  right; 
what  bothers  me  sometimes  is  their  heads. 
In  this  election  sentiment,  common  sense 
and  the  welfare  of  the  community  were  all 
on  one  side,  with  nothing  but  a  party  ma- 


136    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

chine  and  the  unknown  quantities  of  Labor 
and  Religion  on  the  other.  Personally  I 
don't  know  much  about  underground  pol 
itics,  but  I  suspect  that  Labor  and  Religion 
do  not  control  as  many  votes  as  we  are  often 
led  to  expect." 

"Well,  what's  that  all  got  to  do  with  the 
woman  vote?"  asked  my  friend. 

"Just  this.  Most  women  will  listen  to 
what  some  man  has  to  say  about  the  vote. 
Tradition  is  strong  in  women.  They  will 
very  often  choose  the  ticket  their  fathers, 
brothers,  or  husbands  vote,  and  nearly  al 
ways  the  party  to  which  their  sweethearts 
belong." 

"Maybe  you're  right  as  to  fathers  and 
sweethearts,  but  I'll  bet  a  box  of  Belindas 
that  wives  and  husbands  will  be  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  fence  more  often  than  not," 
remarked  Neal  sagely. 

"The  thing  simmers  down  to  this,"  he 


The  New  Voter  137 

continued.  "The  women  have  an  ideal. 
Sometimes  it  may  be  one  man,  then  it  is 
spelt  idol,  but  at  others  it  is  a  cause,  a  theory, 
or  what-not.  Pure  milk,  clean  streets,  better 
air,  filtered  water,  and  up  jumps  some  four- 
flusher  with  a  sweet  voice  who  wants  to  be 
It  and  espouses  one  of  these  ideals  as  his 
own.  He  discovers  it,  sings  it  from  the  ros 
trum,  works  every  sort  of  variation  on  the 
theme,  with  no  more  belief  in  it  than  a  pat 
ent-medicine  vender." 

"I  know,"  I  interjected,  wanting  to  talk; 
but  my  friend  continued,  disregarding  me: 

"That  sort  of  chap  will  lead  them  every 
time.  You  will  find  your  own  orations  at 
home  falling  upon  deaf  ears.  He  may  be  a 
jailbird.  If  so,  your  wife  will  make  him  out 
a  martyr.  He  may  have  been  previously 
elected  to  some  high  office  where  he  failed. 
She  will  tell  you  it  was  because  he  did  not 
have  a  chance,  and  so  it  will  go." 


138    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

There  was  no  further  chance  to  talk,  as 
we  had  reached  his  office,  where  I  left  him. 

Returning  that  evening  rather  earlier  than 
usual,  I  found  a  group  of  my  wife's  friends 
talking  over  the  election.  That  they  were 
pleased  with  the  result  was  of  course  ap 
parent.  The  conversation  had  passed  be 
yond  that  point.  The  matter  in  hand  was  to 
present  to  our  new  Governor  a  programme 
of  what  I  should  call  Betterfication  of  the 
State.  These  ladies  were  actually  drawing 
up  a  list  of  their  combined  ideals  of  govern 
mental  improvements  to  submit  at  the 
proper  time. 

As  my  friend  had  remarked,  pure  milk 
was  on  the  list.  So  was  a  plea  for  better 
roads.  One  angular  lady  of  more  advanced 
years  was  recommending  better,  lighting  of 
roads  in  certain  quarters  of  the  city.  An 
other  was  focusing  her  strength  upon  the 
Housing  Problem.  In  short,  the  housewife 


The  New  Voter  139 

had  her  broom,  a  large,  new  broom,  with 
which  to  sweep  the  city  and  State  clean. 
She  was  regardless  of  what  came  under  city 
rule  and  what  under  State,  and  she  had  for* 
gotten  all  about  the  Federal  Government  in 
her  excitement  for  change. 

I  thought  to  myself,  what  sort  of  fate  lies 
before  these  new  officials  with  their  limited 
powers,  their  lobby  and  their  laws,  to  say 
nothing  of  their  appropriations?  That  oft- 
repeated  and  super-hackneyed  term,  "my 
constituents,"  had  now  another  meaning, 
for  the  women's  vote  will  be  loudly  heard  in 
the  land,  and  woe  be  to  him  who  does  not 
perform  the  superhuman  act  of  making  of 
the  world  a  Spotless  Town. 

So  think  I,  the  T.B.M.  Perhaps  I  am 
wrong.  I  know  very  little,  at  least  so  I  infer 
at  times  from  the  remarks  of  my  children 
and  the  expression  hi  my  wife's  eyes. 


THE  DEBUTANTE 


THE  DEBUTANTE 

IN  the  olden  time,  the  Seven  Wise  Men  were 
looked  upon  with  veneration  both  for  their 
age  and  knowledge.  Now  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  real  veneration,  and  knowledge 
seems  to  be  with  the  young  rather  than  the 
old.  At  least  so  I  am  told  by  the  coming 
generation,  who  have  come  with  a  vengeance, 
and  no  class  in  these  days  come  with  more 
assurance  or  more  self-reliance  than  the 
Debutantes.  If  we  read  our  Thackeray,  we 
realize  what  tender  blossoms  those  dear 
young  ladies  really  were,  safe  in  the  realm  of 
their  ancestral  abodes.  In  our  vernacular 
they  were  all  innocent,  clinging  vines,  help 
less  but  winsome.  In  those  days  women 
were  enshrined  for  the  adoration  of  mankind. 
In  our  fathers'  and  mothers'  day  there 
was  more  of  practical  life  up  to  the  age  of 


144    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

wooing.  Simplicity  and  merriness  were  fac 
tors  in  the  attraction  of  both  sexes.  The 
piazza  still  had  its  uses;  the  days  of  husking- 
bees  had  passed,  but  the  community  spirit 
still  remained,  and  parties  and  balls  were 
given  and  enjoyed  by  a  company  of  real 
friends,  and  the  Debutante  who  received  her 
guests  was  a  girl  unspoiled  and  eager  for 
wholesome  pleasures. 

But  to-day  the  Debutante  is  full  mistress 
of  her  powers  and  freer  in  many  cases  than 
her  male  peers,  who  are  still  grinding  away 
at  college.  She  is  more  mature  than  he,  and 
she  knows  just  about  as  much  about  life  as 
he  does  and  thinks  a  great  deal  more  about 
it  than  he  ever  imagines.  She  has  been  used 
to  motors  and  luxuries  of  every  sort  provided 
by  fond  parents  more  fortunate  than  wise, 
and  she  is  not  limited  in  her  vision  to  the 
town  or  city  of  her  birth,  but  flits  about 
choosing  her  friends  from  kindred  spirits, 


The  Debutante  145 

and  she  has  fallen  upon  an  ill  time  —  a  time 
when  prohibition  has  made  hypocrites  of 
men  and  women  alike,  when  laws  are  broken 
by  those  we  respect,  and  the  Debutante 
naturally  argues  that  if  some  laws  are  bro 
ken,  why  not  others?  In  short,  she  is  in  the 
way  of  doing  pretty  much  as  she  pleases  and 
finds  justification  in  the  actions  of  those 
whose  lives  touch  hers. 

A  few  years  ago,  when  the  term  "the 
emancipation  of  women"  was  first  heard  in 
the  land,  it  applied  to  the  outdoor  move 
ment  when  girls  began  to  take  an  active  part 
in  sports.  It  was  a  good  thing.  There 
quickly  developed  a  proficiency  in  golf  and 
tennis  which  was  surprising.  Then  girls 
were  included  in  camping  expeditions,  and 
horsemanship,  fishing,  and  sailing  soon 
brought  to  light  the  latent  efficiency  of 
many  girls  and  women  in  outdoor  activities. 
From  this  has  arisen  a  feeling  of  comrade- 


146    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

ship  between  the  sexes,  which  never  before 
existed;  but  with  it  has  come  a  freedom  of 
expression  and  the  adoption  of  habits  and 
manners  which,  to  say  the  least,  would  have 
amazed  those  gentle  creatures  of  Thackeray's 
fancy.  The  slang  of  the  average  American 
girl  to-day  would  rejoice  the  heart  of  a 
George  Ade  and  cause  Mr.  Dooley  to  reflect 
"wance  more  on  the  times."  The  cigarette- 
maker  knows  his  wares  are  enjoyed  by  both 
sexes  with  equal  relish,  and  Mr.  Ziegfeld's 
astounding  revelations  and  revolutions  in 
dress  have  invaded  the  ballrooms  to  such  an 
extent  that  the  musical  comedies  have  been 
obliged  to  return  to  nature  in  order  to  achieve 
success. 

Our  Debutante  is  well  up  in  all  the  books 
of  the  type  which  lay  hidden  a  generation  ago, 
and  what  is  more  she  talks  about  them.  In 
short,  she  knows  so  much  that  it  is  the  won 
der  of  the  time  that  she  really  knows  so  little. 


The  Debutante  147 

It  was  at  a  ball  that  the  T.  B.  M.  first  met 
the  Debutante.  Sue  insisted  that  we  take  in 
certain  functions  in  order  not  to  become 
archaic  and  to  keep  in  trim  for  the  children. 
We  had  been  in  the  ballroom  for  some  little 
time  before  our  attention  was  drawn  to  her. 
She  had  just  passed  us  dancing  cheek  by 
jowl  with  an  athletic,  good-looking  chap, 
whose  expression  of  dignity  and  serious 
contemplation  admirably  camouflaged  what 
must  have  been  his  inner  feelings  at  such 
close  proximity  to  feminine  beauty.  The 
T.  B.  M.  did  not  approve  of  this  latest  fash 
ion  in  dancing.  He  admitted  that  it  was 
undoubtedly  devilish  good  fun,  but  devilish, 
and,  therefore,  to  be  avoided,  and  he  won 
dered  why  on  earth  the  matrons  did  not 
wake  up  and  sense  the  thing. 

Miss  Deb,  it  seemed,  was  a  daughter  of  a 
classmate,  who  insisted  upon  introducing 
him  and  arranging  for  a  dance. 


148    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

"Will  you  really  dance  with  an  old  man 
like  me?"  This  politely  and  gallantly  from 
the  T.  B.  M. 

"Sure,  come  on,"  replied  the  delicate 
creature,  snuggling  closely  against  him,  and 
off  they  went. 

"  Is  n't  this  music  simply  peachy ! "  mur 
mured  Miss  Deb  against  his  shirt  bosom. 

"You  bet,"  replied  the  T.  B.  M.,  trying  to 
catch  the  lingo. 

"You're  not  at  all  bad,  you  know;  let's 
twinkle,"  added  Deb.  So  they  twinkled  un 
til  interrupted  by  a  claimant  for  the  rest  of 
the  dance. 

The  next  time  the  two  met  was  in  the 
following  summer  when  the  T.  B.  M.  was 
spending  a  week-end  with  his  classmate  at 
the  seashore.  Miss  Deb  was  playing  singles 
with  the  same  handsome,  athletic  young 
man  and  apparently  beating  him  when  the 
motor  brought  our  friend  to  the  house.  The 


The  Debutante  149 

match  was  a  hot  one,  so  that  after  it,  the 
pair  in  bathing-suits,  which  matched  ad 
mirably  in  style  and  brevity,  took  a  plunge 
in  the  sea,  and  then  sat  upon  the  raft  and 
swung  their  legs  to  and  fro  while  talking  — • 
incessantly  —  until  my  friend  took  the  meg 
aphone  and  shouted  "dinner"  to  them. 
The  meal  was  a  hurried  one,  for  Miss  Deb 
had  planned  to  motor  ten  miles  to  a  movie 
show,  and  then  take  in  the  last  part  of  a 
dance  before  bedtime. 

That  was  a  year  ago.  Last  week,  in  a  trim 
blue  suit  and  still  with  the  same  swinging  gait 
and  the  same  self-assurance,  Miss  Deb  called 
upon  me  at  my  office  to  ask  if  there  was  any 
vacancy  in  my  staff  which  she  could  fill. 

I,  T.  B.  M.  and  Innocence  itself,  asked 
what  the  trouble  was. 

"  Oh,  no  trouble  at  all,"  she  replied.  "  I  Ve 
nothing  to  do,  that's  all,  and  it's  getting  on 
my  nerves." 


150    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

"Nothing  to  do!"  I  exclaimed;  "what's 
the  matter  with  what  you  did  last  year?" 

"Oh,  well,  I'm  fed  up  with  dances  and 
teas,  and  besides  all  the  girls  are  getting 
jobs  now,"  she  said  lightly. 

"You  mean  it's  the  thing  to  do,"  I  haz 
arded. 

"Quite,"  she  replied. 

"Where's  our  blond  athlete?"  I  ventured. 

"Married.  Did  n't  you  get  a  bid?"  she 
asked  with  utter  unconcern. 

"Yes."  I  remembered  now  that  I  had, 
and  that  he  had  married  a  demure  little  girl 
who  lacked  the  lustrous  qualities  of  my 
visitor,  but  who,  I  suspected,  had  poise  and 
common  sense. 

"That's  it,"  I  ejaculated  out  loud. 

"What's  it?"  inquired  Miss  Deb. 

"  Poise  and  common  sense  and  equanimity. 
You  girls  are  testing  the  extremes  of  life  and 
you  are  losing  the  perspective  of  your  careers. 


The  Debutante  151 

You  lack  balance  and  you  race  up  and  down 
the  tilt  of  life  trying  to  find  it.  Don't  go  so 
far  either  way,  and  you  will  find  it  easier  to 
keep  your  balance.  If  you  can't  do  it  alone, 
get  some  one  else;  it  sometimes  balances 
easier  with  two." 

Miss  Deb  looked  at  me  a  little  doubtfully, 
and  I  rose. 

"I  guess  you're  busy,"  she  murmured. 
She  shook  hands  and  left  without  waiting 
for  her  job. 


A  NEIGHBOR  ONCE  REMOVED 


A  NEIGHBOR  ONCE  REMOVED 

EVERYBODY,  of  course,  has  colds.  One  of  our 
neighbors  who  is  a  wag,  after  a  prolonged 
siege  of  family  illness,  remarked  to  me  at  the 
club  at  luncheon,  "In  certain  families  there 
is  some  one  who  has  a  cold  all  the  time,  and 
in  others  they  all  have  a  cold  some  of  the 
time,  but  in  my  family  we  all  have  colds  all 
of  the  time."  Perhaps  it  was  the  thought,  or 
perhaps  my  friend  uncaged  one  of  his  flock 
of  family  germs.  At  any  rate,  that  night  I 
started  in  with  a  chill,  and  the  next  morning 
one  of  my  loudest  colds  was  in  full  eruption. 
I  say  loudest  because,  unfortunately,  I  have 
never  acquired  the  skill  to  camouflage  a 
sneeze.  Every  so  often  I  would  celebrate 
the  arrival  of  a  cold  with  a  Presidential  sa 
lute  of  twenty-one  —  or  more  —  guns,  every 
one  of  which  threatened  to  take  my  head  off. 
This  particular  cold  was  poorly  placed,  for 


156    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

I  had  a  dinner  engagement  which  I  wished 
earnestly  to  keep.  It  was  a  monthly  din 
ner  of  a  dozen  or  so  of  my  classmates,  and 
upon  this  particular  occasion  Bob  Cogges- 
hall,  who  had  just  returned  from  a  year  in 
Serbia,  was  to  join  us,  and  we  had  planned 
a  sort  of  jubilee  meeting  which  I  knew  would 
be  joyous.  Therefore  I  arose  and  crawled  to 
the  office. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  attempt  to  go  in 
town,  dear,"  Sue  said  in  a  pleading  tone. 

"  I  don't  know  why  any  man  ever  goes  in 
town  these  days,"  I  replied  bitterly,  think 
ing  of  the  "market"  and  the  empty  days  of 
the  last  three  months,  but  also  knowing  that 
if  I  did  not  go  to  the  office  Sue  would  forbid 
the  dinner,  and  so  in  I  went. 

As  luck  would  have  it,  the  cold  acquired 
speed  and  strength,  and  at  lunch  Freddie 
pronounced  it  a  magnum,  and  I  caved  in  and 
went  home.  Of  course  that  ended  the  dinner 


A  Neighbor  Once  Removed    157 

for  me,  even  without  argument.  There 
might,  however,  have  been  an  argument  if 
Sue  had  been  at  home,  for  she  would  have 
said  that  I  could  not  go  to  the  dinner,  and  I 
should  then  have  attempted  to  prove  that  I 
could.  After  having  established  that  fact,  I 
should  have  gone  on,  however,  to  admit  that 
I  was  n't  going. 

Sue  was  out,  which  simplified  the  situa 
tion,  so  I  put  on  an  old  coat  and  slippers  and 
ensconced  myself  in  a  comfortable  chair  be 
fore  the  fire  in  my  library,  having  sought  for 
an  opiate  of  Oppenheim  stories  and  found  it. 
There  is  one  comfort  in  a  cold.  It  is  the  one 
disease  I  know  of  where  comfort  and  ease 
can  be  appreciated  and  really  enjoyed.  One 
can  smoke,  even  imbibe  with  moderation, 
with  the  sense  of  doing  the  right  thing  at  the 
right  time;  and  one  need  not  go  to  bed.  So  I 
solaced  myself  with  these  thoughts  and  pre 
pared  for  a  cozy  afternoon. 


158    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

I  had,  however,  scarcely  started  my  book 
when  the  outer  door  opened,  bringing  a  draft 
which  made  gooseflesh  of  my  complexion, 
and  the  next  moment  a  velvet  headpiece 
projected  itself  through  the  open  door,  dis 
closing  beneath  a  heavily  veiled  face  and  a 
much-be-ulstered  figure. 

"Heavens!  is  it  you?"  exclaimed  the  face 
and  veil,  j,"  Why,  what  are  you  doing  here  at 
this  time  of  day?" 

At  being  thus  interrogated  in  my  own 
house,  I  explained. 

The  veil  was  pushed  upward,  and  I  saw 
the  familiar  features  of  Mrs.  Wynne,  one  of 
our  neighbors,  who  was  like  some  cousins  we 
speak  of  hopefully  as  once  removed.  Mrs. 
Wynne  had  at  one  time  lived  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street,  but  as  the  state  of  her 
health  demanded  that  she  spend  her  time  in 
the  waiting-rooms  of  a  variety  of  specialists, 
she,  and,  I  need  hardly  add,  her  husband 


A  Neighbor  Once  Removed    159 

and  her  four  children,  had  removed  to  town. 

"I  was  out  here  lunching  with  the  Ben 
netts  and  thought  I  would  drop  in  a  moment 
to  see  Sue,"  she  explained. 

"Sue  is  out,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  I  replied 
gravely,  "but  won't  you  sit  down?" 

"I  can  only  stay  a  minute,  anyway.  I'm 
awfully  disappointed  not  to  find  Sue.  How 
is  she?" 

Then  followed  one  of  those  minutes  which 
the  T.  B.  M.  knows  so  well  —  those  spun-out 
minutes  when  conversation  becomes  inter 
minable,  the  long  prayer  of  society,  the  voic- 
ings  of  endless  vacuities.  Such  minutes  are 
generally  spent  at  the  front  door  with  the 
door  open,  but  on  this  occasion  I  was  spared 
the  open  door. 

"You've  got  a  cold.  Oh,  I  am  sorry,  but 
I  can  tell  you  just  what  to  do."  She  did  — 
but  I  did  n't  do  it. 

Foolishly,  in  reply  I  asked  her  how  she  was. 


160    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

"Well,  I  hardly  know,"  she  replied,  set 
tling  back  to  give  full  justice  to  the  subject. 
"Do  you  know  that  since  we  moved  in  town 
I  think  my  asthma  has  been  better.  Dr. 
Jenkins  felt  that  it  came  from  the  fall  damp 
ness.  It  was  not  brought  on  by  rose-cold  or 
hay-fever,  or  any  of  those  things  that  I 
thought  of  while  here,  but  simply  by  the 
general  dampness  coming  from  the  ground 
after  the  sun  had  set.  He  has  told  me  to  keep 
on  the  pavements,  and  to  always  be  at  home 
by  five  in  October  and  half -past  four  in  No 
vember.  It  is  hard  to  keep  strictly  to  this 
rule,  but  I  do  it  nearly  every  day  and  I  am 
really  better.  Not  entirely  all  right,  you  un 
derstand.  Heavens,  no!  I  don't  suppose  I 
ever  shall  be  —  but  still  it  is  encouraging  to 
feel  that  you  are  on  the  right  road  at  last!" 

I  hastily  agreed.  "You'll  soon  be  all  over 
it,  I  am  quite  sure,"  I  remarked  soothingly. 

"Perhaps,  but  if  it's  not  one  thing  it's 


A  Neighbor  Once  Removed    161 

another"  Mrs.  Wynne  replied  impressively, 
to  which  I  bowed  in  appreciation.  "Yes," 
she  continued,  "no  sooner  had  I  ferreted  out 
the  source  of  this  asthma  trouble,  which,  as 
you  know,  has  bothered  my  throat  and  nose 
and  hearing,  oh,  so  miserably,  than  I  had 
the  most  awful  shock!  I  was  sure  that  it 
was"  (here  she  lowered  her  voice)  "heart, 
but  after  an  exhaustive  examination  by  Dr. 
Leeds  (you  know  Dr.  Leeds;  he  is  by  far 
the  most  celebrated  heart  doctor  in  the  city 
• — some  say  in  this  country),  he  said  that 
the  trouble  came  from  indigestion.  Of  course 
that  was  a  relief." 

"Of  course,"  I  echoed,  breathing  noisily 
through  one  nostril,  hoping  to  frighten  her 
into  leaving. 

"But  it  did  not  mean  that  I  should  not 
have  another  palpitation,  so  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  bant,  which  I  did  for  two  weeks,  and 
then  I  was  so  abjectly  miserable  that  I  went 


162    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

to  see  Dr.  Hawkins,  and  what  do  you  sup 
pose  he  said?"  Here  Mrs.  Wynne  sat  up, 
head  up,  resembling  certain  canine  speci 
mens  anticipating  largess  in  the  form  of  a 
cracker. 

"Blest  if  I  know,"  was  the  best  I  could 
muster. 

"Eyes!  Eyes,  he  said,  were  probably  at 
the  root  of  the  whole  trouble,  and  I  can  see 
it  all.  The  eyes  were  probably  affected  by 
my  asthmatic  trouble,  and  the  development 
has  been  slow." 

"  Hello,  you  two  here ! "  The  voice  of  my 
wife  never  sounded  sweeter  as  she  came  into 
the  room  drawing  off  her  gloves  and  with  a 
cool  touch  on  my  brow  expressed  the  mes 
sage  of  sympathy  for  my  cold  and  for  the 
ordeal  through  which  I  was  passing. 

"Why,  Wynny  dear,  how  nice  of  you  to 
drop  in!  I'm  so  sorry  I  was  out,"  she  said 
cheerily,  and  I  am  sure  truthfully.  "Do 


A  Neighbor  Once  Removed    163 

come  into  the  other  room  and  tell  me  all 
about  yourself.  We  have  n't  met  for  ages." 
And  turning  to  me  with  the  faintest  drop  of 
an  eyelid,  "You  poor  dear,  you  must  stay 
right  here  as  close  to  the  fire  as  you  can  and 
mother  that  cold.  I  know  Mrs.  Wynne  will 
excuse  you." 

And  stay  there  I  did,  while  the  murmur  of 
voices  told  me  of  a  repetition  of  the  symp 
toms  with  embellishments  not  to  be  re 
corded  in  these  pages. 


SISTER 


SISTER 

WE  were  sitting  alone,  my  wife  and  I,  over  a 
crackling  fire  in  the  library.  The  crisp  fall 
days  had  come  and  with  them  an  exhilara 
tion  in  mind  and  body.  We  were  in  love 
with  our  country,  our  home,  and  our  chil 
dren  —  although  an  evening  without  the 
latter,  I  [must  confess,  was  not  unwelcome. 

Being  a  T.  B.  M.,  my  slippered  feet  were 
raised  high  upon  the  fender  and  the  evening 
paper  lay  half-read  upon  my  knees.  This 
was  the  real  thing  to  me,  and,  pulling  com 
fortably  at  my  pipe,  I  said  so  to  Sue. 

"It  is  comfy,"  she  admitted.  "I  wonder 
why  we  don't  do  it  oftener." 

And  that  for  some  reason  or  another  set 
me  thinking  of  Harriet.  Harriet  is  my  sister, 
and  the  exact  reverse  of  what  I  choose  to 
think  I  am,  although  Sue  says  we  have  much 
in  common. 


168    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

"Have  you  seen  Harriet  lately?"  I  asked. 

"No,  but  I  don't  have  to  see  her  to 
know  what  she  is  doing.  Look  at  this," 
she  said,  spreading  before  me  two  large, 
square,  printed  announcements,  which  had 
evidently  just  arrived  in  the  mail.  One  was 
an  invitation  to  a  Charity  Ball  in  town, 
with  a  formidable  array  of  patronesses,  in 
which  the  name  of  Mrs.  J.  Gardiner  Halsey 
figured  both  as  patroness  and  as  guiding 
spirit. 

"Here's  another,"  continued  Sue,  plant 
ing  before  my  gaze  the  notice  of  a  current 
events  class  to  be  held  at  the  home  of  Mrs. 
J.  Gardiner  Halsey  upon  Wednesday  after 
noons. 

"Did  you  read  yesterday's  social  col 
umn?"  inquired  Sue  with  a  twinkle  in  her 
eye.  "If  not  I'll  get  it  for  you,"  which  she 
did. 

In  the  center  of  the  page  was  the  repro* 


Sister  169 

duction  of  a  fashionable  photograph  of  a 
woman  of  perhaps  forty,  smart,  well-coif- 
fured,  without  being  really  handsome,  but 
with  a  keen,  intelligent  expression  tending 
to  firmness.  Beneath  it  were  the  words, 
"Mrs.  J.  Gardiner  Halsey,  whose  eldest 
daughter,  Miss  Muriel  Halsey,  is  prominent 
among  this  season's  buds." 

In  another  column  was  a  short  paragraph 
to  the  effect  that  Mrs.  J.  Gardiner  Halsey 
was  giving  a  tea  for  her  daughter,  Miss 
Muriel  Halsey,  and  her  cousin,  Miss  Elsie 
Wilmot,  at  the  Priscilla  Club  on  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  the  month. 

"  No  wonder  1  have  n't  seen  her,"  laughed 
Sue. 

"Have  we  got  to  see  her?"  I  ejaculated. 
"  How  many  of  these  blame  things  am  I  ex 
pected  to  attend?" 

"None,  if  you  strenuously  object.  But 
I  should  think  you  ought  to  go  to  the  tea, 


170    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

She  *s  your  only  sister,  and  besides  the  Lady 
Next  Door  will  be  there,  you  know,"  added 
Sue. 

"Well,  even  if  I  don't  go,  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  send  flowers  to  Muriel  and  buy  tick 
ets  for  the  other  shows.  Harriet  is  a  very 
expensive  family  luxury." 

"She  certainly  is,"  replied  Sue  pensively. 
"I  never  knew  any  one  who  thinks  up  so 
many  things  that  other  people  have  to  pay 
for.  It  has  almost  become  a  disease  since  the 


war." 


Just  then  the  outer  door  slammed  and  a 
cheerful  feminine  voice  called,  "Any  one  at 
home?"  It  was  Harriet. 

She  fairly  blew  into  the  room.  Not  in  a 
slangy  sense,  but  the  very  breeziness  of  her 
personality  wafted  her  here  and  there  and 
always  to  the  accompaniment  of  good  humor 
and  high  spirits. 

"Well,  you  delightful  Darby  and  Joan! 


Sister  171 

This  scene  resembles  a  golden  wedding  an 
niversary.  How  are  you  bearing  your  soli* 
tude?" 

I  took  my  feet  grudgingly  from  the  fender 
and  arose  and  greeted  my  sister  as  only  a 
T.  B.  M.,  or  possibly  a  Harvard  sophomore, 
can. 

"Well,  how  on  earth  did  you  get  here  at 
this  time  of  night?"  asked  Sue.  "We've 
only  just  finished  reading  of  your  latest 
achievements,"  pointing  to  the  paper. 

"I  just  walked  over,"  replied  Harriet, 
throwing  off  her  sport  coat.  "It  was  such  a 
perfect  night  I  could  not  stay  in,  and  besides 
I  wanted  some  advice." 

I  moved  uneasily  at  this.  Advice  meant 
work  and  I  scented  danger  ahead* 

"The  district  nurse  is  leaving.  Did  you 
know  it,  Sue?  Well,  it  seems  they  have  n't 
paid  her  enough  and  there  is  no  town  fund  to 
take  care  of  this  important  service.  If  some- 


172    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

thing  is  n't  done,  we  can't  have  any  nurse 
out  here  this  winter,  and  I  think  something 
ought  to  be  done." 

"Yes,  you  naturally  would,"  I  admitted. 

"It  is  n't  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  solicit  money  just  now,"  she  continued. 
"All  these  drives  have  exhausted  the  com 
munity,  and  what  with  poor  business  and 
taxes,  people  are  not  giving  as  they  did." 

"No,  they  can't,"  I  managed  to  interject. 

"Therefore,  to  raise  the  necessary  sum  we 
must  give  them  something  for  their  money. 
Get  up  something  or  other,  and  that  is  what 
I  came  over  to  talk  about." 

"I  hardly  think  we  could  be  very  helpful 
with  ideas,  Harriet,"  said  my  wife;  "we  are 
so  quiet  here." 

Not  any  too  quiet  for  a  T.  B.  M.,  I  thought, 
but  aloud  I  replied 

"Harriet,  I  know  perfectly  well  that  you 
have  it  all  framed  up.  What 's  your  idea?  " 


Sister  173 

"It's  a  play,"  said  Harriet  lightly.  And 
I  groaned  aloud  as  I  sank  back  in  my  chair. 

"  You  see  we  have  had  all  the  concerts  and 
lectures  that  people  will  stand,  and  fairs  and 
bazaars  must  be  saved  for  the  church,  so 
my  idea  was  to  get  up  a  play  with  only  a 
small  cast,  just  the  people  here  in  town,  and 
no  one  will  refuse  to  buy  tickets  for  a  play 
with  home  talent,  even  if  they  won't  enjoy 
it.  You  '11  take  part,  brother  of  mine,  for  the 
sake  of  the  cause  and  for  my  sake,  now  won't 
you?" 

There  then  ensued  an  argument  and  dis 
cussion  which  is  too  painful  to  set  down  upon 
paper.  Needless  to  say,  Harriet  won  over 
Sue  and  Sue  browbeat  me  into  yielding  with 
the  worst  possible  grace. 

After  the  die  was  cast,  Harriet  lost  no 
time,  but,  jerking  on  her  coat  while  protest 
ing  what  a  good  old  sport  I  was,  breezed  her 
way  out  as  she  had  come.  At  the  open  door, 


174    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

however,  she  turned  and  called  back:  "By 
the  way,  don't  forget  the  bridge  party  Fri 
day  night.  The  Brandons  are  coming  out 
from  town  for  the  week-end  and  they  are 
counting  on  seeing  you."  The  door  slammed 
and  I  looked  up  at  my  wife  with  haunted 
eyes,  my  head  bowed  between  my  shoulders. 

"Amateur  theatricals  at  my  age!"  I 
groaned. 

" Nonsense,  it  will  do  you  good;  make  yoi» 
forget  yourself  and  business  too,"  she  re 
plied,  patting  my  head  as  if  I  were  a  little 
child. 

"  If  Harriet  had  only  remained  in  town  or 
gone  South  for  the  winter!"  I  sighed. 

"Tush!  She's  your  sister,"  answered  Sue, 
putting  up  the  fender  as  a  prelude  to  bed. 


TOPSY-TURVY 


TOPSY-TURVY 

TOPSY  was  our  cook;  she  was  not  colored. 
I  have  expostulated  to  my  wife  on  several 
occasions  that  she  was  not  even  a  cook, 
and  the  proof  of  my  remarks  was  liter 
ally  in  the  pudding;  but  as  my  wife  invari 
ably  reminded  me  of  the  several  occasions 
when  we  were  without  even  the  semblance 
of  a  cook,  and  as  neither  of  us  possesses  those 
admirable  qualities  which  consist  of  cruising 
about  the  pantry  and  dishing  up  something 
perfectly  delicious  out  of  the  remains  of 
nothing  at  all,  we  felt  the  loss  horribly.  We, 
therefore,  put  up  with  Topsy  with  equa 
nimity  and  we  paid  her  regularly  each  week 
a  large  proportion  of  our  slender  savings. 

Our  life  was  divided  into  three  distinct 
parts,  as  it  concerned  Topsy,  —  those  eve 
nings  when  we  dined  quietly  at  home  a  deux, 


178    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

when  we  entertained  assisted  by  Topsy,  and 
when  we  dined  out,  —  and  it  may  be  safely 
asserted  that  when  we  went  out  so  did  Topsy. 
Our  dinners  at  home  did  not  represent 
that  charming  picture  of  Darby  and  Joan 
well  known  to  those  who  are  not  so  thor 
oughly  immersed  in  the  latest  development 
of  art  as  to  scorn  old-time  favorites.  The 
painting  of  Darby  and  Joan  has  been  repro 
duced  many  times,  and  may  be  purchased 
in  the  art  sections  of  department  stores.  It 
shows  a  table  laid  for  two,  heavily  laden  in 
fact,  and  rich  glass  and  china  adorn  the  fleck- 
less  linen,  and  decanters  are  shown  upon  the 
table.  It  is  a  fine  tribute  to  the  amenities  of 
the  mid- Victorian  era  so  scoffed  at  by  twen 
tieth-century  debutantes.  At  this  table  are 
Darby  and  Joan,  now  grown  old  and  grace 
fully  so  through  an  era  of  plenty  and  comfort. 
Being  a  T.  B.  M.,  I  feel  old,  and  as  I  look 
upon  this  picture  I  am  tired,  for  the  quiet, 


Topsy-Turvy  179 

the  comfort,  the  luxury,  and  the  peace  of  this 
evening  meal  fill  me  with  a  hopeless  sort  of 
feeling  that  I  have  been  checkmated  by  being 
born  to  an  era  of  dislocation  of  all  the  tradi 
tions  so  dear  to  the  epicure,  and  therefore 
the  T.  B.  M.  is  more  vulnerable  at  mealtimes 
than  at  any  other.  No,  the  picture  of  Darby 
and  Joan  in  no  way  illustrates  our  home 
dinner.  My  wife  and  I  sit,  to  be  sure,  vis-a- 
vis,  across  a  splendidly  substantial  mahog 
any  table,  which  was  one  of  our  wedding 
gifts,  and  each  of  us  is  seated  in  a  chair  wor 
thy  of  Sheraton,  also  wedding  gifts;  but  on 
the  table,  placed  there  noisily  by  Topsy,  is  a 
plate  of  veal  loaf,  some  warmed-over  maca 
roni,  a  few  leaves  of  salad  which  look  as  if 
they  had  been  used  as  the  outer  covering 
of  what  might  once  have  been  a  head  of  let 
tuce,  before  the  chickens  had  secured  the 
heart,  and  enough  bread  and  butter  for  eight 
people. 


180    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  Mary,  our  wait 
ress,  was  out.  But  the  only  difference  would 
have  been  that  no  salad  would  have  been 
served,  and  less  bread  in  evidence,  so  that 
we  may  count  ourselves  as  the  gainers. 

My  wife  always  explained  such  meals  as 
being  merely  the  odds  and  ends,  but  I  no 
ticed  that  they  invariably  came  on  to  the 
table  upon  days  when  she  had  gone  to  a 
sewing-circle  luncheon  where  whipped  cream 
had  played  a  prominent  part.  However,  we 
both  console  ourselves  with  the  thought  that 
we  have  saved  money. 

The  expense,  however,  was  brought  up  to 
a  handsome  average  by  the  little  dinners 
which  we  gave  to  friends  who  had  been  kind 
enough  to  invite  us  to  dine  with  them.  It 
was  only  by  purchasing  delicacies  that  we 
were  able  to  offset  Topsy's  quaint  carica 
tures  of  cooking. 

I  remember  one  dinner  a  few  weeks  ago 


Topsy-Turvy  181 

when  we  had  invited  certain  friends  whose 
menage  slid  along  noiselessly  as  if  on  greased 
tracks.  We  had  ventured  upon  oysters  which 
1  had  purchased  and  had  had  opened  at  the 
fish  store.  What  was  our  horror  when  Mary 
served  the  soup  first  and  the  oysters  next. 
The  following  morning,  when  my  wife  took 
up  the  subject  in  the  kitchen,  Topsy  asserted, 
and  vehemently  so,  that  Sue  was  all  wrong. 
Soup  came  before  fish,  and  she  proceeded  to 
prove  her  case  by  quoting  from  her  cook 
book.  No  power  could  shake  her  conviction 
that  we  were  wrong,  and  Sue  was  so  fearful 
that  there  would  be  a  repetition  that  we 
have  forsworn  oysters  ever  since.  Upon 
those  rare  occasions  when  we  entertained  — 
what  a  misused  term  —  my  mental  condi 
tion  reminded  me  of  those  unforgettable 
pictures  of  the  Inferno  drawn  by  Dore 
which,  encased  in  ornate  bindings,  adorned 
the  center  table  of  our  middle- Victorian 


182    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

relatives.  It  was  upon  such  occasions  that 
Topsy  revealed  her  artistic  temperament. 
On  another  occasion  when  we  were  having 
friends  who  entertained  lavishly,  Topsy  sent 
in  the  soup  —  a  puree  of  green  peas,  with  a 
maraschino  cherry  daintily  poised  upon  the 
whipped  cream.  The  color  scheme  was  ad 
mirable,  but  my  mental  apparatus  failed  to 
keep  my  conversational  ability  upon  the 
high  level  which  a  cocktail  and  caviare  had 
successfully  launched.  I  knew  that  my  wife 
would  suffer  throughout  the  entire  meal, 
wondering  what  was  going  to  take  the  place 
of  the  cherries  planned  for  a  finishing  touch 
to  the  dessert.  She  need  not  have  worried, 
however,  for  Topsy's  ingenuity  was  spent 
by  the  time  the  dessert  appeared  minus  any 
adornment  whatever. 

Our  family  Thanksgiving  dinner  came  off 
without  a  hitch  owing  to  the  forethought 
of  my  mother-in-law.  My  wife  had  herself 


Topsy-Turvy  183 

proudly  made  a  mince  pie,  having  been 
goaded  to  do  so  by  that  oft-repeated  phrase 
about  mother's  pies.  She  had  instructed 
Topsy  to  heat  it  just  a  bit  to  take  the  chill 
off.  Topsy,  mindful  of  the  request,  placed 
the  pie  in  the  oven  and  then  promptly  for 
got  it  until  the  hour  destined  for  its  appear 
ance.  Topsy's  sobs  as  she  viewed  the  charred 
remains  were  heard  by  us  at  table.  My 
mother-in-law,  wise  in  all  things  except 
grandchildren,  had  brought  a  mince  pie  with 
her  according  to  a  time-honored  custom, 
and  so  once  again  the  pie  that  mother  made 
was  our  refuge  and  delight. 

When  it  came  to  Christmas  and  the  at 
tendant  problems,  we  decided  to  omit  the 
usual  gifts  among  the  members  of  the  family. 
What  with  eggs  at  $1.20  per,  clothes  at 
$85.00  a  suit,  Billy's  shoes  at  $9.00,  servants 
at  figures  which  I  dare  not  mention,  and 
taxes,  taxes  —  Christmas  gifts  seemed,  to 


184    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

say  the  least,  a  frill.  Furthermore,  there  was 
nothing  much  left  in  the  bank,  and  the  per 
sistency  of  the  good-looking  girls  with  those 
fatal  badges  who  literally  storm  the  busi 
ness  section  of  the  city  had  emptied  my 
pockets  successfully.  My  wife  and  I  became 
firm,  therefore,  in  our  resolve  not  to  give 
each  other  presents  on  Christmas  Day. 

And  then  the  week  before  Christmas  came. 
Certain  exceptions  to  the  rule  loomed  large. 
"Could  we  omit  my  own  mother,  who 
invariably  came  to  the  rescue  at  critical 
times  with  a  welcome  check?"  No,  I  put 
my  foot  down.  She  must  have  something,  if 
only  a  plant.  A  plant  was  ordered.  Then,  of 
course,  the  children.  They  were  to  have 
their  Christmas  as  usual,  and  we  found  that 
the  usual  meant  in  cash  a  fifty  per  cent  in 
crease.  There  was  my  wife's  maiden  aunt, 
who  always  knitted  something  for  every 
one  and  then  got  the  beastly  things  mixed. 


Topsy-Turvy  185 

Last  year  I  received  a  pair  of  bed  socks  in 
tended  for  my  brother-in-law's  baby.  How 
ever,  she  must  have  something  useful,  and 
a  hot-water  bottle  was  done  up  in  white 
paper  with  yards  of  red  ribbon  and  the 
usual  Red  Cross  stamp  affixed;  and  so  it 
went  until  the  table  was  piled  high.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  there  was  no  abatement  in 
the  number  of  gifts,  although  I  was  told  the 
cost  was  trifling. 

Finally  it  came  to  the  servants,  and  here 
my  wife  was  adamant. 

"If  we  want  them  to  stay  we  must  do 
something  handsome."  Well,  what  was 
handsome?  That  was  the  question,  and  we 
fell  back  upon  the  old  argument  which  in 
variably  puts  me  into  a  temper.  "We  must 
do  what  everybody  else  does,"  stated  my 
wife  firmly. 

This  apparently  consisted  of  giving  to 
each  maid  $5.00  in  cash  from  me,  something 


186    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

from  each  child,  and  a  dress  or  a  muff  or 
some  article  of  attire  from  my  wife. 

It  made  no  difference  how  long  the  maid 
happened  to  have  been  an  inmate  of  our 
home  or  whether  she  was  adequate.  That 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  case,  and  as  usual 
I  had  nothing  to  say  about  it.  In  fact,  I  had 
nothing  to  say  about  the  servants  that  ever 
had  the  slightest  effect,  although  I  talked  at 
length  upon  the  servants,  touching  upon  the 
relative  high  cost  of  domestic  service  in  com 
parison  with  the  price  of  labor  in  other  fields 
of  endeavor.  I  pointed  out  not  once,  but, 
several  times  —  my  wife  claims  I  have  said 
it  a  hundred  times,  but  she  exaggerates  — 
that  a  domestic,  when  one  reckons  her  board 
and  lodging,  is  recompensed  at  a  higher  rate 
than  teachers,  for  instance,  who  have  full 
charge  of  the  education  of  our  next  genera 
tion,  or  of  certain  types  of  bank  officials  who 
are  responsible  for  thousands  of  dollars.  I 


Topsy-Turvy  187 

likened  them  to  this,  that,  and  the  other 
wage-earner  until  my  wife  pointed  out  that 
my  remarks  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  matter,  as  Mrs.  Mortimer  J.  Mor 
timer,  who  lives  next  door,  paid  two  dollars 
a  week  more  to  her  cook  than  we  do,  and 
Mrs.  P.  Van  Vandergrift,  who  lives  on  the 
other  side,  paid  one  dollar  a  week  more  for 
her  waitress,  and  that,  therefore,  we  were 
actually  saving  money.  Then  the  argument 
ceased. 

And  so  when  Christmas  morning  came,  I 
found  myself  in  the  usual  mental  condition 
of  feigning  joy  over  the  receipt  of  a  necktie 
which  I  secretly  swore  to  exchange  the  next 
day,  a  pair  of  silk  socks  two  sizes  too  small, 
a  blotter,  and  one  or  two  useless  knickknacks 
for  my  desk,  and,  thank  God,  the  usual  box 
of  Coronas  from  my  roommate. 

"You  must  go  and  wish  the  maids  a  Merry 
Christmas,"  cautioned  my  wife;  and  so  I 


188    The  Reflections  of  a  T.  B.  M. 

made  my  way  kitchenward,  preparing  a  little 
speech  calculated  to  arouse  loyalty  and  af 
fection. 

The  speech  was  received  with  a  stolid 
indifference,  and  I  added  to  it  by  inquiring 
of  Topsy  whether  she  had  received  all  the 
plunder  she  expected. 

Yes,  it  appeared,  she  had.  She  showed  me 
the  fur  my  wife  had  given  to  her,  and  which 
I  hoped  to  be  able  to  pay  for  in  January,  a 
five-pound  box  of  candy  from  a  "cousin" 
(we  only  received  a  pound).  It  is  curious 
how  many  cousins  —  and  useful  ones  at 
that  —  one's  servants  possess.  Topsy  re 
ceived  a  number  of  other  gifts  which  cost 
more  than  any  of  the  things  I  had  conferred 
upon  my  relatives.  And  as  I  was  going  she 
said,  "I  got  fifty  dollars  from  a  friend;  was 
n't  he  the  generous  one?"  I  acquiesced. 

A  swift  calculation  brought  me  the  con 
viction  that  Topsy 's  gifts  totaled  about 


Topsy-Turvy  189 

$100,  while  my  own,  with  the  exception  of 
the  cigars,  had  netted  me  about  five. 

"It's  Topsy's  world  now,"  said  my  wife. 

"The  world  is  Topsy-Turvy,  you  mean," 
was  my  reply. 


THE  END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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